


Ashes and Embers

by undermounts



Series: Of Loss and Legends [1]
Category: Blades of Light and Shadow (Visual Novel)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Choices, Choices: Stories You Play - Freeform, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Pixelberry, Slow Burn, Violence, blades of light and shadow, bolas, everyone is a simp, explicit hand holding, in which it is iliana's world and everyone else is just living in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 37
Words: 298,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24488752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undermounts/pseuds/undermounts
Summary: In the wake of the Shadow Court's defeat, the Old Gods call and darkness rises.
Relationships: Aerin Valleros/Main Character (Blades of Light and Shadow)
Series: Of Loss and Legends [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950157
Comments: 179
Kudos: 85





	1. Prologue: God Help the Outcasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Light and Dark. Good and evil. All opposites are just two sides of the same coin.

Iliana lifted the heavy sword, settling into a defensive stance―the only one she knew, really, learned through observation of the merry bands of adventurers that occasionally passed through the backwater town she called home. Her sword was a piece of junk, always blunt, no matter how often she sharpened it, and horribly balanced. But at least it was free, and frankly, free was all that Iliana could afford. 

She had found it abandoned on the side of the road out of Riverbend, probably because it had either been forgotten or it had clearly failed to do its job in defending its previous owner. Either way, the details concerning why her sword had been left there were not important; it was clear that whoever once possessed did not miss it and was probably better off having lost it.

Scrap metal or no, it was all Iliana had between her and the brutes that stood before her, glaring down at her lithe form. Although, perhaps ‘brute’ is a bit of a generous term. Iliana’s attackers were hardly more than pubescent, grimy boys with wiry hairs on their chins and pillowy bodies. But then again, Iliana was not exactly the perfect picture of strength and agility, although such qualities might be expected of her kind. 

She had heard the legends of great elves who dually wielded blades and magic with great skill from her brother, Kade. He knew all sorts of stories about the various species that inhabited Morella, but the ones about the elves were the tales Iliana requested most. It was through these tales that Iliana learned everything she knew about the ancient species―her own _kind_ ―who she had never seen in person, not even once. 

Iliana knew that the elves were skilled fighters, brilliant strategists, and cunning leaders, but it seemed that she was the exception. 

At eleven years old, Iliana was not a legendary battlemage, but a scrawny child who had never properly learned how to fight or to even hold her own in a skirmish. The only exertion she knew was that of the field from the days she helped Amphitryon, the kind farmer who took her and Kade in when they were barely more than babes. Her hands were still soft, her limbs too gangly, and the blueish skin that set her as _Other_ was unscarred and as smooth as the rare pearls traveling traders bring into the market. 

Her blade wavered in Iliana’s hands as she held it across her body, snarling like a feral animal as the two boys came closer, driving her further down the alley she had fled into. She swallowed back the coppery blood that flooded her mouth from her split lip, a minor wound she sustained when she caught a meaty fist to the mouth. As she continued to back away, Iliana realized that she needed to quit retreating, or else she would be cornered against the brick wall the alley ended in.

Iliana gripped her sword tighter and planted her feet firmly on the ground, drawing her line. She would hold it. 

“Not another step,” she threatened, pointing the tip from one boy to the other. “Or I will gut you where you stand. I swear it.”

The two boys looked at each other, then burst out laughing as if she had told a joke so raunchy, any tavern would riot.

“Yeah, elfling?” The one with dirt brown irises, gingery hair, and crust around the inner corners eyes snorted. He slapped the butt of his club against the palm of his other hand. “How are you going to do that? With that toothpick you call a sword?”

“Why don’t you come closer and find out?” she taunted, partially bluffing and partially wishing they would take the bait. She had no idea if she could actually come out on top in a fight, but she knew that she would never learn how to be a proper fighter unless she got into her fair share of scuffles. And beyond that, she could not stop imagining how satisfying it would feel to slam the pommel of her sword into one of their crude, smirking mouths and knock one of their remaining, grimy teeth out. 

“Look, runt,” said the other ruddy-faced boy, whose long, greasy hair was a mousy shade of brown that fell into his muddy hazel eyes. “Just hand over your coin purse, and we’ll let you go on your way.” He let out a bumbling laugh, elbowing his companion. “We’ll even let you keep that sorry excuse for a weapon so you can practice for the next time we come searching, right, Raf? Maybe then you’ll actually stand a chance.”

“I think my chances right now are good enough,” Iliana replied, her eyes watching as their feet shuffled forward. “So I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself,” the one called Raf grunted, dragging his club along the ground as they continued to come closer. “But you’re in for a beating.”

“I say we cut her into little blue pieces,” snickered the other as he flicked out a tiny blade that gleamed in the low light of day. It was getting dark and Iliana was supposed to be home by now. She distantly wondered if Kade or Amphitryon would come looking. “Starting with those pointy ears of hers.”

Iliana let out a vicious growl, then hurled herself forward, swinging wildly and with abandon. She had no idea what she would have done if her blade actually made contact with the pudgy flesh of her assailants since she had no intention of being locked away in Riverbend’s local keep, but luckily―or perhaps unluckily―none of her blows struck home. Raf and his thief of a partner may have been hulking hunks of meat, but Iliana’s inexperience and her blinding rage brought about her own defeat.

The two boys ducked her blade, one grabbing her wrist and squeezing so hard, her fingers unfurled and her blade went clattering to the ground. The other grabbed her by the back of her tunic and turned, using her momentum to swing her into the wall. Iliana smacked into the stone, her teeth singing with the impact. She felt blood, hot and sticky, trickle down from at the edge of her hairline, and judging by the way the side of her face throbbed, Iliana was certain she would have a nasty swollen eye in a little while. 

“Look at her, Gil!” one of the boys sneered as Iliana staggered against the wall, her legs wobbling like a newborn colt’s. “Gods, she looks like a blueberry.”

“I wonder if she’ll squish like one of them,” Gil replied as they leered over Iliana. Raf made a move for the coin purse tethered to her belt and she scowled, fingers curling into her fist. Iliana did not know how to sword fight, but she knew how to throw a punch. Her fist cracked beneath Raf’s jaw, snapping his head back and sending him reeling. 

“Bitch!” he huffed, fingers framing his jaw as ruby red blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth from a bitten tongue. 

Before Iliana could get her wits about her and bolt, the one called Gil swiftly backhanded her across the face and barred his arm across her chest, leaning all of his weight against her to pin her to the wall. He held up his knife, its blade gleaming viciously in the dying light. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, elf. You’ll pay for that.”

Iliana struggled against him as the knife’s edge pierced the cartilage of her ear, carving into the delicate curve. She fought back a whimper of pain as blood welled over her ear and dripped down her neck before she scrunched her nose in defiance. She drew in a sharp breath, then spit, saliva and blood coating Gil’s grimy face as she brought up her knee, slamming it between his legs. 

He went down with a groan, his blade falling away, and Iliana ran for the alleyway entrance, stooping to grab her fallen sword as she went. She heard a grunt and a muffled curse behind her as she pumped her legs, the only part of her body that didn’t hurt. 

Iliana cried out in surprise as a massive body hurtled itself into hers, sending her sprawling across the floor. Her yelp was cut short as her chin smacked into the cobblestone street and she bit down hard on her tongue. The air left her lungs in a whoosh and Iliana felt her ribs cry out in protest as the weight of the body atop hers ground them into the stone. 

She wheezed as the pressure on her spine eased ever so slightly and two hands gripped her shoulders, flipping her onto her back. Before she could start struggling again, Raf, the one she Iliana had punched, bore down on her once more, using his weight to trap her legs in place. As Raf undid the knot that tied her coin purse to her belt, Iliana shoved at his arms and chest until she got the idea to aim for his face. She clawed three jagged lines across his cheek before he drew back, hissing in pain, the coin purse in his meaty hands.

He glared at her, brushing his fingers across his wounded cheek. When he felt the warmth that clung to his fingertips, his scowl deepened and hand clenched into a fist. “You know, I have a personal rule about not hitting girls, but―” Iliana saw spots flutter before her eyes as his fist connected with her cheek and her head snapped to the side. “―I don’t really feel that bad about hitting you.”

“Iliana!”

She knew that voice. Iliana could hardly breathe with Raf’s weight crushing her, but she rasped, “Kade.”

“Amphitryon **!** ” Kade shouted from the mouth of the alleyway. “I found her! Come quick, Iliana’s in trouble!”

Disoriented, Iliana watched blearily as Raf looked up, his eyes widening. “Gil, we have to go.”

Iliana gulped down air into her aching lungs as the boy stood, rolling onto her side and coughing hard. Over the sound of her hacking, she heard the scrape of boots on stone and the jingle of her coin purse as her two assailants fled.

“Hey―!”

“Move it, runt,” one of the boys grunted and Iliana pushed herself to her forearm just in time to see Kade get shoved aside as the boys rounded the corner.

“Stop them!” That was Amphitryon. He was likely only a block away, judging by the way his voice echoed. Other voices rose, likely the other farmers he and Kade had gathered to search for Iliana.

The rest of the noises faded away as Iliana spit blood onto the ground, her fingertips delicately touching the tender skin of her bruised face. She hissed as she brushed along the edge of the gash on her temple, her hand coming away sticky. 

“Iliana!” Kade gasped, rushing to her side. He reached for her, seeking to help her sit up but Iliana slapped his hands away.

“I’m fine,” Iliana snapped, her voice rough like sandpaper. She caught Kade’s concerned and doubtful expression as she painstakingly pushed herself into a sitting position. Her vision swam with dark spots and every bit of her body ached, but drowning all of that out was her burning rage.

She had been taken advantage of and bested by two sweaty boys. She had been degraded and humiliated. In all her time here, Iliana had never had her identity thrown back in her face as a slight, had never felt so small and weak. Tears of frustration blurred her vision, but she choked them back, willing her anger to be stronger than her sorrow.

“Iliana…” Kade said softly, gingerly touching her shoulder as she struggled to stand.

“I said that _I’m fine_ , Kade,” Iliana ground out through gritted teeth, first getting her feet beneath her, then her legs. She swayed on her feet, but she refused to fall. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, smearing her blood across her skin as she retrieved her sword from the ground. She was burning, nearly trembling with fury and mortification. But beneath it all, she felt a new resolve settle into place.

As Iliana steadied herself against the wall, using it as a crutch while she hobbled out of the alley, she vowed to herself that this would never happen again. Never again, would she let anyone demean her so, let someone take her identity―the only connection she had to her parents and her long lost people―and use it as a weapon. Never again, would she need someone else to rescue her.

Iliana gripped her sword tighter, the leather bindings of her hilt creaking as she set her bruised jaw in determination. She was meant to be more than an outsider, a street urchin and farmhand that got targeted in the night market. She would become strong and skilled, like the soldiers and adventurers she watched pass through Riverbend. She would become someone that her kind would be proud to call their own.

Iliana emerged from the alleyway, her body battered and sore, but still standing. She tilted her head back to gaze up at the stars, even as her right eye swelled shut, and wondered if there was anyone else out there, someone like her―another outcast, another easy target―who was staring up at them too. 

Then she straightened and continued on, feeling just a little bit stronger. 

* * *

Prince Aerin Valleros, the second son of Arlan Valleros, King of Morella, and younger brother to Crown Prince Baldur, sat beneath a flowering elder tree at the edge of the palace garden, with his legs crossed and back resting against the textured trunk. His nimble fingers turned the wooden puzzle cube in his lap over and over, his lip tucked between his teeth and face screwed in concentration as he sought the solution.

The make of this puzzle box was outdated and foreign, very unlike the ones that were made in Morella these days. And yet, it was by far more complex and intricate than any he had tried to solve before. He had never seen anything like that amongst the ones he had seen in the various emporiums that lined the streets of Whitetower. No, Aerin had never seen a puzzle like this in the world, for it was a trinket of his mother, something she had brought with her from her homelands. She had given it to him earlier that week in an attempt to quell his constant flow of questions although he appreciated the gift nonetheless.

At twelve years old, Prince Aerin was far more inquisitive and curious than his older brother, Baldur, had ever been. Whereas Baldur liked to romp about the castle, flaunting his flashy sword every chance he got, Aerin preferred to spend his time in the royal archives, reading every book he could get his hands on, whether they be about magic or the kingdom his family presided over. 

The archives were always quiet, good places to go to do some thinking and be alone. Although Aerin did not exactly enjoy being alone. No, a part of him even resented it. But it could not be avoided. Baldur got all of the attention, from his parents, from their attendants, and from their people; he got all of the glamor that came with being the crown prince while Aerin was left in the shadows. So he did not exactly prefer to be alone. The lonely life he led was not the one he would have chosen for himself―imagine that, being able to have a _choice_ in life. But at least when he finished his morning lessons and retreated into the archives, Aerin could pretend that it was by his own will that he spent his days by himself.

Today, however, he could not lose himself in the endless stacks of the royal library, for it was undergoing renovations. So instead, he had taken his puzzle cube and went as far from the castle he could possibly go without leaving the safety of palace grounds and the watchful eyes of his attendants.

Evidently, the edge of the garden was not far enough away.

“There you are, brother!” declared an all-too-familiar voice.

Aerin tried not to sigh as he looked up from his cube, setting it carefully in his lap. “Hello, Baldur.”

The Crown Prince strode up to where Aerin sat beneath the elder tree, his familiar entourage of young courtiers following behind him. As usual, he had his sword out, its gilded hilt and polished blade gleaming in the sunlight as he casually waved it about, pointing to Aerin’s cube. “Are you still playing with that useless hunk of wood?”

Aerin’s mouth pulled into a frown and he glanced down at his lap. “It’s not a useless hunk of wood.”

“No?” Baldur lifted a brow, tilting his head. He glanced back at his juvenile following, a sly smile spreading across his countenance. “Well, does it give you anything?”

Aerin’s brow furrowed. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Does it do anything?”

“No,” Aerin replied, pursing his lips as he turned the puzzle over in his hands. “Well. As a matter of fact, I am the one who―”

“Can it be used for something?” Baldur pressed on, arching a thick brow.

Aerin’s frown only deepened as he replied, “No.”

“Well, then,” Baldur said, twirling his blade in a flashy arc as he strode forward. He was always performing, his actions sometimes a little over-the-top, both for himself and the people around him. “If it doesn’t give you anything or do anything, and it cannot very well be _used_ for anything, it sounds pretty useless to me.”

“Mother gave it to me―”

“Mother?” Baldur echoed, pausing before his younger brother. “You realize she probably gave it to you because she wanted to be rid of that piece of junk? Hmph. Give it here.”

Before Aerin could protest, Baldur stabbed down with his sword, the sharp point embedding itself into the worn wood of the puzzle block like a toothpick in a cube of cheese. Aerin cried out in dismay as Baldur lifted his blade and inspected the object, tilting his head this way and that.

“It doesn’t look very exciting,” he drawled, tone gloriously bored. “Does it even _open_?”

“It’s a _puzzle_ Baldur,” Aerin retorted, trying to rein in his irritation as he got to his feet and reached for his mother’s gift. “You’re supposed to figure out how to open it.”

“You have to figure out how to open it?” Baldur pursed his lips in distaste. “That seems rather pointless to me. There are plenty of boxes that open without any of this nonsense.”

Behind him, his retinue of courtiers tittered and Baldur’s lips curved slyly.

“Come, brother,” he said, laughing. “Don’t tell me you are so bored with palace life that you have resorted to playing with a block of wood!”

Before Aerin could react, Baldur flung his arm aside, his sword a sparkling arc of steel as the puzzle cube flew off the end and soared beyond the hedge that marked the edge of the palace garden, lost forever.

“Baldur!” Aerin’s jaw dropped as he gazed at the spot his mother’s gift had disappeared over the edge. He turned back to his brother, hands clenching by his sides although he did not dare to even think of striking the Crown Prince. “Why would you do that?”

“You spend far too much time with your nose in a book, brother,” Baldur replied coolly, adjusting the sleeves of his embroidered blue tunic. “You do not need some silly child’s toy to entertain yourself. In fact, I know the perfect remedy to your boredom.” He brandished his sword. “I propose we duel. A little spar, to brush up our skills.”

Aerin resisted the urge to step back as his hand fell atop the pommel of his sword, which rarely left the sheath at his hip outside of his training lessons. “Spar? Here? Now?”

“Yes, little brother,” Baldur rolled his eyes, waving his hand towards Aerin’s blade. “Let us see if you have learned anything worthwhile in those lessons. I’ve heard that Master Syrio is not as keen and quick as he used to be. I could show you a few things myself.”

Aerin ground his teeth, reminding himself to keep his composure and avoid saying anything that might offend Baldur, especially in front of the other courtiers. “I appreciate the offer, but I shall pass. Master Syrio is more than a competent teacher but you still have a few years of experience on me. I do not wish to make myself a fool in front of you or our dear friends, here.”

They were only _Baldur’s_ friends, truly. Even if the other courtiers were cordial with him, Aerin knew that their allegiance would always remain with the Crown Prince. As it had to be if they had any hopes in elevating their houses when they took on the titles their parents held as the numerous lords and ladies of Morella.

Aerin began to walk away but Baldur stopped him, blocking his path with his sword, its lethal edge only inches away from Aerin’s fine clothing. Aerin’s brows knitted, his stomach knotting as he looked over at his brother.

Baldur’s smile was stiff. False. “You are mistaken, little brother. I am not asking you to fight. I am _telling_ you.”

Aerin’s blood went cold. He knew that tone, the slight edge to his brother’s voice. It always came just before he got a beating, but that had never happened in front of the others before. Surely, Baldur wouldn’t dare… 

“Apologies, dear brother, but I am afraid I would be a very disappointing opponent,” Aerin said smoothly, using the gentle tone he often heard his father use when he spoke to various commoners who came to the palace in seek of aid or to offer up a portion of their seasonal crops. “I would be too easy for you to defeat. You might find a more interesting duel with Lord Amarne,” Aerin suggested, lifting his hand towards a member of their fledgling court. “I have seen him wield a sword with admirable grace. Perhaps he would put up a good fight.”

Aerin proceeded to turn away, a chill running down his spine as Baldur laughed mirthlessly. Suddenly, Aerin’s entire world tilted. One moment he was standing, eyes trained on the nearby rose garden. The next, he was looking at the ground, dangerously close to slamming into it as he stumbled, his ankle caught by Baldur’s foot.

When he caught his balance and whirled around, face burning with embarrassment, he caught Baldur’s palm against his cheek. It stung, but no more than his pride as Aerin’s head snapped to the side.

“Always the diplomat,” Baldur sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. “Trying to talk your way out of your problems. Well, a few fancy words won’t save you in a war, _princeling._ They won’t spare you from the wicked sting of a drakna or the vicious claws of an owlbear. It is best if you learn that lesson now.” His brows flattened, eyes glinting menacingly. “Draw your sword, Aerin, and fight me.”

The cruel grin the Crown Prince gave made Aerin realize that his brother had planned for this all along. Baldur had come looking for a fight, and he would not leave until he got one.

It was this more than anything that made defiance rise up in him as he spat back, “No.”

“No?” Baldur scoffed. He tugged at the edge of his tunic, twirling his blade. “Very well then.”

He struck, not with his blade, but the hilt of his sword. Baldur slammed the pommel beneath Aerin’s chin, his neck snapping back. He hooked his foot around Aerin’s ankle once more and drove his elbow straight into his brother’s chest. Aerin grunted as he fell to the ground, the wind knocked out of him and head spinning. He wheezed, black dots swarming his vision as he gazed up at the light blue sky, the clouds lazily floating by. He moved to push himself up to his elbow when he felt a sudden pressure that forced him to lay flat on his back.

“This is what happens when you are unprepared,” Baldur crooned, laying his polished boot upon Aerin’s chest, settling some of his weight down. He let the tip of his sword waver inches from his younger brother’s face, smirking at how Aerin’s eyes widened, never straying from his blade. “When you back down from a challenge. Because even if you choose not to fight, you can still _lose_.”

In a flash, Baldur shifted his sword, slicing a thin line across Aerin’s cheekbone. 

“Next time I ask you to spar, little brother,” he continued loftily, sheathing his sword but keeping his foot planted atop Aerin’s chest. “Do not argue. Maybe, if you would agree more often, you would not get beaten every time.”

Aerin’s anger flared, like a nasty beast trapped inside a mortal cage of blood and bone. As he glared up at his brother’s face, Aerin wanted to scream, wanted to wipe that smug smirk off Baldur’s lips, even though Baldur was several years his senior and would always have the upper hand in a fight.

 _You could do it, you know,_ a voice whispered inside his head, soft and alluring. _You could make him pay._

Aerin’s heart began to pound. He could see it, the proper course of action. The moment Baldur retreated, he could see himself shift his leg, hook his foot around his brother’s ankle and yank, sending the Crown Prince sprawling to the ground. 

_After everything he has done to you…_

He saw himself get to his feet as Baldur scrambled back, saw himself crack the butt of his sword against his brother’s forehead, then lift his blade―

Aerin blinked and the images dissipated, along with that wicked voice, leaving behind a chill and a sickly feeling of disgust. Had he truly just imagined those horrid fantasies himself? Aerin felt appalled, his stomach twisting in revulsion at his own capacity to be so base.

“Did you hear me?” Baldur snapped, his expression shifting from mocking to irritation. “Your future king is speaking to you.”

Aerin ground his teeth, his anger still burning like hot coals beneath his horror. But he bit his tongue and nodded. “Yes, brother.”

Baldur smiled smugly, removing his foot and stepping back. Aerin felt his lungs inflate with air, no longer burdened by an oppressive weight. “Good,” he replied, shifting his belt on his hips as he began to stride away. “I think that is enough for today. You have learned your lesson and I have been thoroughly entertained. You should go clean up.” He glanced back at Aerin, eyeing the bloody gash on his cheek. “And you should get that patched up. It is not becoming of princes to have scars. At least not ones without exciting stories. I will see you at dinner, little brother.”

Aerin glared at his brother’s retreating back, chest heaving. He waited until Baldur and the others were well out of sight before screaming through gritted teeth in frustration. He slammed his fist into the ground, pounding the dirt until his knuckles split and bled.

Tears blurred his vision, dripping onto the dust as he poured out all of his anger and frustration. Deep down, Aerin knew he was having a tantrum. He should be used to this―his brother’s behavior, his belittling. It was all he had ever known. He could not think of a time when his brother was kind. But he was so tired of this. The humiliation, the mockery. And the worst thing about it was that he would do nothing about it.

When he was finally done, utterly drained and feeling numb, Aerin sat back and took several deep breaths to steady himself. He gazed back at the palace, at the gradually darkening sky. Night was falling, and it would be time for dinner soon. He should hurry back to his quarters and change out of his dirtied clothes and see a healer for the cut on his cheek. But as he began his trek back to the castle, Aerin decided not to bother. 

Let his parents see what had happened to him. Let them see what Baldur had done. Perhaps then, they might be moved enough to start caring about him. He could see a healer later. 

But when Aerin sat at the grand oak table in the Great Dining Hall an hour later, nobody noticed a damn thing. 

* * *

Iliana slipped through the darkness, silent and swift as a shadow as she crept alongside buildings, two young men trained in her sight. Seventeen years old now, Iliana had come a long way from the sniveling child she had been when she used to get swiped in the night market. Now, she could wield her sword―which she had poured all of her coin into to improve―as well as most travelers or soldiers, and she was as nimble as any of the local thieves. Not that she _was_ a thief. No, before tonight, Iliana had never dipped her fingers into any pockets. Or at least any pockets that didn’t _deserve_ picking. 

Tonight, Iliana had two targets, and a score that needed settling.

As the two men she trailed turned a corner, Iliana shimmied up a gutter pipe and hauled herself on the roof of a building. She kept low as she ran along its edge and jumped the gap that spanned between her building in the next. She knew her targets’ path by heart, knowing which rooftops to prowl across to intercept them. 

Iliana couldn’t help but smirk to herself as she came to the spot she had marked earlier to wait for them and heard their voices nearby. She adjusted the black hood of her cloak and secured the dark strip of cloth that hung from her neck around her face so that only her eyes were visible.

“I say we do it, Gil. There’s nothing good for us in Riverbend. Morella’s at peace. If we join the king’s army, we’ll probably just get stationed somewhere like Port Parnassus. Maybe even _Whitetower_ if we’re lucky.”

“Oh, come off of it, Raf, they would _never_ station us at Whitetower. The capital’s got its own city guard.”

“Well, maybe not Whitetower. But still, any place is better than _Riverbend._ ”

“I don’t know… My father wants me to take over the family business…”

The two men passed just below Iliana’s hiding spot, and she grinned. Iliana rolled off the roof, a blur of darkness as she landed in a low crouch before them. 

“ _Seven hells!_ ”

Her eyes flicked between the two young men, identifiable by mouse-brown and ginger hair, as she stood.

“Hello, boys,” Iliana crooned, drawing her sword. “It’s time to pay your dues.”

Then she lunged.

It was over too quickly. In less than a minute, Iliana had knocked the one called Raf out and drove Gil to ground. She crouched over the young man, staring into his dirt brown eyes as she planted her knee into his heaving chest and held her blade to his throat.

“Remember me?” Iliana asked sweetly, knowing her face was covered as she drew a small knife from her boot.

She watched his pupils shrink in fear as the edge of her sword kissed his neck. “Who are you?” he panted, one of his hands scrabbling across the cobblestone floor. Iliana pinned his wrist with her foot. “ _What_ are you? And what do you want?”

“What am I?” she echoed as she brushed his gingery hair aside and brought her knife near his ear. Iliana grinned as she pulled down her scarf and drew back her hood. “Why, I’m just an elfling,” she murmured, noting the way his eyes widened in recognition and his breathing grew rapid. She skimmed the tip of her blade along the curve of his cartilage. 

“Do you remember when you tried to cut me into little blue pieces?” She tilted her head, dark curtains of hair falling away to draw attention to the silvery scar tissues that mottled the edge of her pointed ear. “Because I do.”

“I’m sorry,” Gil breathed, the words coming out in a rush. His eyes flicked to his friend, who was still unconscious on the ground. “I’m sorry. We were young and foolish and―”

“So was I,” Iliana hissed, her anger flaring before she reined it in, regaining her cool composure. She clucked her tongue, applying a slight pressure to her knife. “You know, personally, I think you would look better with ears like mine.”

“No! No, please, no,” the young man babbled frantically, eyes pleading. He tried to turn his head away, but Iliana’s sword kept him in place. He only seemed to grow more hysteric as he realized she could just as easily kill him. “Please, no. Don’t. Whatever you’re going to do, don’t. I beg you.”

Iliana pressed down a little harder and the flesh of his ear grew red, although she did not break skin. Her nose wrinkled as she scented something acrid and bitter. She turned, gaze falling on the front of Gil’s trousers as they darkened. He had pissed himself.

_Gods…_

Well, Iliana had certainly gotten her point across. It chilled her a bit, to realize how much terror she had induced. Although she wasn’t entirely sure it was undeserved. Compared to the beating he and Raf had given her, she supposed that she was letting him off easily. “As you wish.”

She leaned back, wrapping her fingers around the coin purse at his waist and yanking so that the tether snapped. Iliana stood, leaving the man trembling on the floor as she swiped the bag of coin off of Raf’s prone form as well. From the mouth of the alley, she glanced back at the men who terrorized her as a child, who laid motionless on the ground―one frozen in fear and the other unconscious.

For six years, she had been preparing for this moment. Well, not only for this moment. She had wanted― _needed_ ―to learn how to fight for many reasons. But of all of those reasons, this was the most self-indulgent. Iliana thought she might feel triumphant after she finally paid back her childhood bullies. But instead, she only felt tired and a little ill at how efficiently she had wounded and terrified them

Without another word, she turned and went on her way.

When she slipped back into the bedroom she shared with Kade, she had already changed out of her makeshift stealth clothes and stored them in her pack. Which was good, because her brother was up and waiting for her.

“Where were you?” Kade asked from his bed, voice thick with sleep. He must have just woken up. His eyes fell to the heavy coin purses at her hip. “And where did you get those?”

Iliana shrugged nonchalantly, unstrapping her sword belt and gently leaning it against the wall. She set the bags of coin atop the nightstand that stood between her and Kade’s bed before settling on her mattress and starting to unbuckle her boots. “I was just collecting from someone who owed me, that’s all.”

Iliana did not make a habit of lying to Kade and she knew that he never lied to her, either. She saw it, clear on his face, that her brother did not believe her.

But when he yawned, wiping at his bleary eyes, Kade merely shrugged, clearly too tired to pursue the matter any further tonight. He flopped back onto his bed and rolled over. Within a few minutes, he was sound asleep. 

Iliana rolled her eyes and she slipped beneath the sheets. Typical. As she closed her eyes and curled into her pillow, Iliana wondered if perhaps vengeance simply was not for her. 

* * *

By the time Aerin had turned thirteen, he knew that the mysterious voice he heard inside his head was not his own. This realization had come to him during a visit to the Temple of Light in Whitetower, when the Onyx shard had called out to him in the same voice he had faintly heard for months. It was the Dreadlord’s.

The Dreadlord―the dark creature Aerin had heard about in legends, had read about in countless history books―had reached out to _him_. The Dreadlord claimed to see unmatched potential, claimed to see and understand his suffering, and offered a way out. It had terrified Aerin at first, but he could not escape the Dreadlord’s whispers and seductive promises―promises to provide Aerin with the means and opportunity to stand up to defeat his abusers, promises to allow him to rule as the Shadow King and right the wrongs his father and all of his other ancestors had committed against their people. 

From that day forward, the whispers of _You could do it_ turned to _You can do it,_ and sometimes, even, _You_ will _do it._

Now, after so many years, the day had finally come for Aerin to step out of the shadows, to reveal himself and put the plan in action. 

Aerin rearranged the Onyx shards, fitting them together as they were always meant to be. He fought to keep his fingers from trembling as he held up the obsidian hilt, the black stone gleaming in the sunlight that streamed in through the windows of the Great Hall.

“The hell do you think you’re doing, princeling?” demanded the orc, brash and vulgar as always.

“This is _not_ the ritual…” said the former Starfury heir, and Aerin suppressed a bitter laugh. How typical of an elf, to state the obvious after the truth had been staring him in the face for weeks. That was simply how they were, blind to their ignorance and all too eager to turn away from the corruption that festered right beneath their noses.

“At last…” Aerin breathed in awe, reverently cradling the hilt in his palm. His voice thickened, shaking the very foundation of the hall they stood in. A smile bloomed across his lips as the Nerada Stone went dormant and his power roamed free. His skin grayed, spiderwebbing veins turning black. Dark power wicked off of him like vile flames. “ _It’s finally mine!_ ”

The ragtag little party of adventurers fell back, their expressions changing in a flip of a coin from one of trust to one of fury. So volatile.

“Darkness!” hissed the nesper.

“Gods _damn_ it! He’s corrupted!” snarled the rogue, blunt and feisty.

“No! It… it can’t be!”

 _Oh, but it is, dear priestess,_ Aerin thought, and for a moment, he almost felt bad for all of the betrayal she had faced today. _And I have only just begun._

He entertained his guests for a while, reveling in their shock as he laid out the plan so far, observing as they realized how thoroughly deceived they had been. They had believed him to be meek, shy, and powerless, and they were so, _so_ wrong. 

It was _delightful_. To see all of his hard work and scheming finally come to fruition. To have his brilliance and cunning recognized.

Aerin had only faltered once, when the elf girl, Iliana, had tried to appeal to him. He knew she was just trying to deceive him with her false charm, but that only reminded him of what it was like to know her genuine affection―affection she had given to the man she believed him to be, the man he once could have been. For a moment, he had almost felt sorry. 

“I had always liked you, Iliana…”

But his determination was stronger than his regret. Aerin clamped down on his feelings, smothering that ember of empathy as he snarled back at her, shutting down her advances. He could stew on it later. 

The arrival of his father, his _brother_ , only stoked the fire that burned within him. _At last, it is time._

“What should I do with him, Father?” Baldur crooned, his touch like poison on Aerin’s shoulder. “Want me to rough him up a little, like when he was little?”

“I’m so glad you came, dear brother,” Aerin said smoothly, in the same dulcet tone he always used to placate the Crown Prince, although this time, his words were genuine. “I did need blood for this ritual… And I think yours will do quite nicely.”

“What are you―”

Aerin twisted the hilt and a blade wreathed in darkness shot forth. Aerin felt the satisfying reverberation of the impact through the Onyx hilt he drove the dark blade home, cutting clean through his brother’s chest.

“Y… you….” Baldur sputtered, blood coating his lips.

 _Yes…_ Aerin thought as he yanked the blade back and his brother collapsed to the floor, like a puppet without strings. Baldur sank into a puddle of his own blood, which mixed crudely with the deep blue of his embroidered jacket. _Me._

He watched dispassionately as the last of the light left his brother’s eyes.

_Finally._

For the first time in twenty years, Aerin felt like he could _breathe._

After years of scheming, plotting, lying, and allowing himself to be degraded over and over again, Aerin was liberated at last. Some part of him, deep inside, ached and protested at the sight of his brother’s lifeless body at his feet, but he shoved it aside, refusing to let his own human conscience get in the way of this victory. Because that was what this was. A victory.

It had to be.

 _Good,_ a sinister voice cooed inside his head, feather-light. _You have done well, Aerin Valleros._

His father screamed in anguish and the others lunged to attack, but Aerin was ready, his power cresting like a wave of darkness, poised to snuff out the light. All of it.

_Welcome to the Shadow Court, princeling._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the show.


	2. Nothing But Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Months after the infamous battle of the Shadow Realm, Aerin Valleros continues to live out his sentence in the palace dungeons with an unexpected companion and Iliana Nightbloom returns home at last.

_“Before there were humans, orcs, and elves_ ― _before there was_ Light― _there was a great, impenetrable darkness. And in that darkness lived the Old Gods.”_

“Hm, yes. The Old Gods,” Aerin Valleros mused aloud, cradling the tome in his lap as he carefully flipped through the pages with nimble fingers, his spine pressed against the cold stone wall of his cell.

He was dressed in threadbare, plain cotton clothes. His hair, an unruly tangle of dark curls sat unadorned by the gaudy circlet of sparkling gold that had weighed upon his head for years. The crown had once been a bane, a marker that perpetually reminded him that although he was a prince, he would forever remain in his brother’s shadow. That no matter what he did or how kind he was to his people, he could never erase the years of ignorance and injustice that secretly characterized the Valleros dynasty for centuries.

Now that the marker of his title had disappeared, along with the title itself, Aerin was not quite sure if he was relieved or infuriated. Relieved because he was no longer constantly reminded of the family that had been content to forget him, but furious because he had come so close to stepping into his own, not as the young Valleros prince, but the King of Shadows.

_“There is no clear consensus on what these Gods looked like, what they did, or by what code they abided. Nevertheless, the one thing that all accounts do agree on is that they were as great as they were terrible.”_

He looked up, unamused. “I’ve read this volume countless times, front to back. A lot of speculation but very little fact.” He smirked slightly. “Although I suppose that is the best we can expect when these gods have not shown themselves for several millennia.” Aerin closed the book, the sound ricocheting off the cold damp stone of the palace dungeons. He held it up, his gaze thoughtful as he regarded the man that leaned against the wall that stood opposite his cell. “This is what you have brought me today?”

The young man looked up, roused from his thoughts. For once, he had not brought a book of his own to read and instead opted to sit in a pensive silence as the fallen prince flipped through the pages of the weathered tomb he had retrieved from the palace archives. He shifted, standing up straighter although Aerin caught the slight wince that pinched his features as he put his weight on the leg that had not healed quite right. The young man’s face had cleared up nicely―the bruises had long since faded and there was not a single scar in sight thanks to the skilled hands of the Whitetower healers. But Aerin knew well enough that the physical damage was not what haunted his companion the most, that the wounds that had yet to heal festered far beneath the surface.

“I found it while I was browsing around,” Kade shrugged, picking at a loose thread in his new palace uniform. The firelight of the wall sconces danced in his moss-green eyes as they roamed about the corridor, noting the palace guards that still stood at attention near the entrance to this row of cells. Over the last few months, they had grown used to Kade’s presence and knew better than to question one of the King’s Champions. “I thought you might find it to be an interesting read. I have never heard of the Old Gods before, even from the old storytellers back in Riverbend.”

“Browsing around?” Aerin echoed, his curiosity piqued. He shook his head, lips curling as he got to his feet, muscles aching in sweet relief. “No, I know this book. One does not simply find it by accident while _wandering_ around the archives. You are searching for something,” Aerin observed, eyes narrowing. He strode forward, gripping the metal bars of his cell as he peered through the gaps. “What have you found in that library, bard?”

“That’s none of your business,” Kade snapped, pushing away from the wall and snatching the book from Aerin’s fingers. 

“It is now,” Aerin countered, bracing his forearm against the cell door. Even dressed in a commoner’s clothes, he managed to maintain an air of princely grace as he gazed out of his cell. As the only remaining son to King Arlan, there was no doubt that he received special treatment, even as a prisoner with crimes as dirty as his. His cell was far from the others, larger, and comfortably furnished. “You brought this here to me for a reason.”

Kade’s gaze fell to the floor and Aerin smirked, tilting his head. In all of the years he spent living in his brother’s shadow, Aerin knew how to observe people, to note the little things they did without noticing. If he had to summarize all the lessons that he had learned during his time as a mere ornament in Baldur’s life into one sentence, it would be that actions spoke louder than words. And right now, the young bard’s were screaming. 

When Kade looked up once more, his face was hard, disdainful. “I brought this to you because I am _kind_. Because you are rotting alone in this cell and you will continue to rot in this cell for as long as the King wills it. And you and I both know that you deserve it for what you have done.”

Once, Aerin may have flinched, but this time, he simply took the verbal barrage and let it sting, knowing, as Kade said, that he deserved it. 

Kade bore the same expression he used to wear when he saw Aerin, when the dark prince had been nothing more than the figure he associated with the Shadow Realm and the horrors within. Aerin knew that Kade still maintained that association and a distant voice inside him chided that the new archivist was justified in doing so. But over the past few months, something had shifted. 

No one knew the nightmare that was the Shadow realm like Kade did―no one, except for Aerin. Their experiences in the smoldering, barren hellscape were by no means the same, but neither man could find even a semblance of understanding elsewhere. 

Whenever Kade had shared his experiences with the other archivists, tavern patrons, or even once, King Arlan himself, he had been met with so many _I’m sorry you had to go through that_ s and _Oh, that must have been horrible_ s, that he no longer wanted to share. Somewhere in the mix of everything that had happened to him, Kade had lost his penchant for storytelling, even though he now had perhaps the most fascinating tale to tell. 

And whenever Aerin had shared his experiences―well, he simply didn’t. Aside from the initial hearing with his father and a few of his most trusted counselors, Aerin refrained from indulging in the details of his life as a fledgling member of the Shadow Court. He knew what people would say. _Monster. Murderer._

And they would be right. Aerin could not even let himself think of the atrocities he had witnessed at the hands of the other courtiers. He could barely bring himself to confront the weight of what _he_ had done, because if he did, he would crumble to pieces, alone in this damned cell.

And maybe that was all he was good for now. Crumbling. It would certainly put a lot of other minds at ease―if he had gone. 

For a moment, Aerin allowed himself to consider the irony of their current situation. When they had first met, Kade had been the prisoner that Aerin had freely sulked not to, but in front of over his crushing legacy. And now, Aerin was the prisoner and Kade was the one who roamed around the dungeons, not to brood but to simply exist without the air of legend and pity suffocating him.

Aerin pulled away from the bars, easing up on Kade. He was in no position to be prodding for information, especially when there was nothing he could do about it anyway. When he released the bar, his fingers quivered, the ice once again settling over his bones as his interest melted away. Ever since the Dreadlord’s power had left him, Aerin was constantly cold and aching. It was as if his body no longer knew how to sustain itself without the shadows burning beneath his skin. He still felt the absence in his chest where the Nerada Stone had once been set. Now there was nothing there but a mottled mass of silvery scar tissue and a void that could not be filled. 

Aerin crossed his arms across his chest, tucking his hands away to keep them warm. Kade’s expression softened by a fraction. “Are you still cold?”

Aerin huffed, glancing away as he slid to the floor and turned so that his back lay against the metal bars of his cell. “I always am.”

There was a sigh, then a rustling sound. Suddenly, a bit of color blurred before Aerin’s eyes and a weight settled into his lap. He looked down, befuddled, and took it into his hands. He frowned slightly, glancing at his cot, which sat in the corner of his spacious cell and was piled high with cotton sheets. “I already have a blanket.”

“Yeah, well, now have another one,” Kade grumbled, retreating to his spot on the wall. “I know the prison-issued ones aren’t great. That one will do a better job of keeping you warm.” He sighed. “You know, you could just ask your father for some better accommodations. He would grant them without a moment’s hesitation. Last time I dined with him, he spoke of giving you your old room. Under constant guard of course―”

“ _No_ ,” Aerin said sharply, firmly. He felt rather than heard Kade flinch at the abrasiveness of his tone, the air between them going taut. “No,” he repeated, softer this time as he stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles, letting his head rest against the bars. “He doesn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well, he still might. And if he wants to, he will.”

Aerin still had yet to work out his feelings towards his imprisonment. Part of him knew it was justified―murder was a crime of the highest offense in Morella. Murder of a _brother…_ that was unforgivable. Yet, Aerin still could not honestly say that he would not have taken the Dreadlord’s offer of power if he had the chance. He saw now how blind he had been, how his pride and vengeance had consumed him, but the opportunity the Dreadlord had offered was still too great. Perhaps if Aerin had not lost his head… if he had not lost sight of his goal to change Morella for good, things could have been different.

But he _had_ done those things. And he could not change the past. So there was no point in imagining the hows and what-ifs, because he was never going to get the chance to fix it. Any of it. No matter how desperately he wanted to.

Aerin swallowed the lump in his throat, lacing his fingers across his knees. “Have you… Have you heard from your sister lately?”

The air between them went fraught with tension once more. Kade’s voice was steely as he replied, “Of course I have. She’s my sister. When she’s not home, we write all the time.”

Aerin winced slightly. He would not know anything about that. What it was like to have a sibling he loved and was loved by.

Kade seemed to realize his misstep too. “Sorry…”

_Baldur…_

Aerin did not feel like unpackaging that particular issue right now. Instead, he asked, “How is she?”

“The last time you saw her, she broke your nose,” Kade noted, a hint of amusement in his voice. “And you want to know how she’s doing?”

Aerin’s lips twisted into a scowl and he barked, “Forget it.”

A small silence stretched between them, punctuated by a heavy sigh. Then―“Iliana is doing well. She’s been traveling around Morella visiting her friends. In her last letter, she had just arrived in Undermount from Flotilla. She should be leaving for Riverbend soon.”

Aerin nodded. That was… He did not know what it was. He supposed that it was good Iliana was safe, although he was not entirely sure he cared. The last time they had met, she had deceived him, had used their connection―or what he had _thought_ to be a connection―against him in order to gain the upper hand. Not that he could blame her. Iliana had done what she had to do in order to protect her own. Plus, he _had_ been the one to manipulate them all first, after all. 

“Aerin…?” Kade spoke up after a few moments had passed. His voice was meek, hesitant. 

“Hm?”

“Something is calling to me,” Kade breathed, his voice echoing hauntingly throughout the hallway.

Aerin stiffened, immediately turning and bracing his hands against the bars. “Like voices?”

Kade’s face was drawn and pale as he pressed his lips into a grim line. “No,” he murmured, brows knitting. “No voices. It’s more of… a feeling. I can’t explain it. But there’s something out there.” He shook his head slowly as he looked down at the tattered volume in his hands.

Aerin swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as he shoved the blanket aside and got to his feet. Instantly, a chill set in but Aerin was too engrossed to notice. “Does this have something to do with the Old Gods?”

Kade’s head snapped up, attention piqued. “What do you know of them?”

 _No._ Aerin had seen this before―this intrigue. He had seen it in himself for almost all of his life once the Dreadlord had gotten his claws into him. He shook his head, face hardening as his voice dropped to a degree of severity he rarely used. “I know that you do _not_ go looking for the Old Gods, Kade. They are more ancient and powerful than anything you have heard of―even the Dreadlord. That is why you do not ever hear even the slightest whisper of them in your taverns.”

Kade’s eyes widened and he pushed away from the wall, his limp slight. “You know something.”

“Only that they are better off forgotten,” Aerin muttered, thinking of the few times he had ever heard of the Old Gods, all of which had occurred in the Realm of Shadow. They had never stayed on the topic for long, but even the members of the Shadow Court seemed to fear the Old Gods. They neither served the Light nor the Shadows, which was why they were so dangerous. So unpredictable. 

“Whatever this is, Kade, do not go searching for them,” Aerin insisted, dropping his voice to a whisper so that the guards were not suspicious. “Take it from someone who has answered the call before. It will not end well.”

Kade blinked, shaking his head as if startling out of a haze. “Of course… You… of course. I was just asking. That’s all.”

Aerin’s lips thinned. He doubted that either of them truly believed that. 

Kade’s throat bobbed as he backed away, running his free hand through his hair. He glanced down the hallway, then back to Aerin as he shouldered the pack he had left on the floor. “Look, I have to go. The King requested my presence at dinner again. I shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Aerin’s lips twisted and he felt something inside of him grow brittle. Of course. How fitting it was, that even with Baldur gone, Arlan had acted more fatherly towards this foundling he met only months ago than he ever had towards Aerin. Bitterness rose like bile in Aerin’s throat, but he only nodded and wordlessly stepped back from his cell door.

Kade nodded, then moved to go. Aerin watched as the other man paused, then hesitantly turned back. “Do you… want me to tell your father anything?”

Aerin turned away, snatching the blanket Kade had brought and retreating to the far corner of his room. “No.” 

There was a tentative silence as Kade hesitated. Aerin let out a small sigh of relief when he heard Kade’s retreating footsteps echo throughout the empty chamber. As soon as Kade was far enough down the hallway for Aerin to be certain that he would not turn back, Aerin paced to the edge of the cell, peering through bars.

As he watched his only companion disappear around the corner, Aerin could not shake the distant, almost scared expression Kade had worn when he spoke of the mysterious call, and had a sinking suspicion that he would not see the young bard again for a long time. 

* * *

“I know, I know. The stables aren’t ideal, but they’ll have to make do for now,” Iliana cooed, stroking the smooth, ebony beak of Kadara, the majestic drake Tyril had loaned her for her journey across Morella. She gently combed her fingers through the creature’s silken yellow and blue feathers, then began to slowly back out of the pen, humming softly to ease her steed. “I promise, we won’t be here for long. I just want to take a quick spin around town. See what’s changed. Then we’ll return to Undermount.”

Iliana closed the gate to the stable behind her, shooting the beast a sympathetic glance as the lock clicked shut. When Iliana turned around, she was greeted with the sight of a shell-shocked stable hand, whose wide hazel eyes flicked between Iliana and Kadara, as if they could not decide which sight was more bizarre to behold. Iliana offered a kind smile that was tentatively returned as she pulled a gold coin from her pocket and flipped it towards stablehand. She jutted her thumb over her shoulder. “There’s plenty of apples in her saddlebag. If you give her one, she’ll let you pet her.”

When the stablehand simply continued to gape, Iliana nodded slowly, then continued on her way down the winding dirt path that led from the stables and into the heart of Riverbend.

As expected, the quaint little town Iliana had grown up in looked more or less the same, but she felt as if she might as well have been treading on foreign soil. Although Iliana suspected that was not because the town had changed, but rather she had. She gazed up at the familiar structures that lined the main thoroughfare. The sun was low on the horizon, bathing brick and stucco in a honey-like glow. The buildings here were so simple compared to the ones she had seen in Port Parnassus, Whitetower, and especially Undermount, yet they instilled in her a similar sense of wonder.

Iliana passed the bakery she and Kade had rented rooms above, breathing in the mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked bread as she tried and failed to fathom that she had spent the last twenty years here. Once, her life in Riverbend had seemed like an eternity of monotony and longing, but now, it all seemed like a fever dream, even though it had only been a few months since she had left. Only a few months had passed but it was enough time for everything to change. 

Iliana wandered around Riverbend, letting her feet take her wherever they so pleased. It was no surprise when Iliana came to stand on a dimly lit doorstep below the shoddy wooden sign that she knew all too well. _The Dancing Pig._

Iliana laughed to herself, even as her heart twinged slightly. This was where it had all began.

_“So what happened next?”_

_“The Dreadlord strode down the battlefield, boom, boom, BOOM! And then_ ― _”_

That had been the night they had met Mal, then Scholar Vash and Nia. The night she and Kade had run to defend a Priest of Light from an owlbear and had gotten tangled up in the quest for the Onyx Shards.

Not for the first time, Iliana found herself wondering what her life would have been like if they had not aided Nia and Scholar Vash that evening. She never would have reunited with Mal, never would have met Tyril, or Imtura, or Aerin―

Iliana blinked. _Aerin._ That had been a name she had not allowed herself think about for a long while and Iliana noted with no small amount of dissatisfaction that the very thought of the Valleros prince still stung like a fresh wound. Subconsciously, her hand fell across her leather satchel, fingers pressing against the outer pocket and the small piece of metal trapped within. 

Iliana could still smell the fragrant scent of the indigo moonblooms, feel the benign breeze that swept off the sparkling lake, hear the water gently lapping at the shore. She still remembered the warmth of Aerin’s hands in hers, the way it felt to feel his smile against her lips, how the air seemed to shimmer around him when he shook the water droplets from his hair. _How could all of that have been a lie?_

The door to the tavern suddenly swung open, forcing Iliana to quickly backstep off the door stoop to avoid getting hit. Golden light pooled on the cobblestone, laughter and jubilant conversation pouring through the open doorway.

“Oi! Sorry, lass, I didn’t know you were there,” the bar patron, a robust woman with closely cropped dark hair and a stark facial scar began, reaching out to steady her. The moment her eyes fell across Iliana’s face, they widened in recognition. “By the Gods! Iliana, is it really you?”

Iliana beamed, her sorrow melting away as she gazed upon Riverbend’s local blacksmith. “In the flesh. It’s good to see you again, Marion.”

“I’ll be damned,” the other woman grinned, ushering Iliana into the tavern. “Come in, come in! I was on my way out, but I have time to buy the Protector of the Realm a pint of Riverbend ale!”

The warmth of the tavern instantly enveloped Iliana, along with the smell of roasting meats and herbs. “Oh! I―”

“Look, everyone!” Marion bellowed, grabbing the attention of every single patron in the tavern. “Our very own Riverbend hero has returned!”

Iliana’s cheeks flushed violet as she gazed out at the faces that cheered for her. She recognized many of them, townsfolk who had helped her and Kade throughout their formative years. But there were a few strangers as well. Iliana realized with a jolt that there were even some elves. 

“Ever since you saved the Realm, we’ve had tourists coming through nonstop to get a glimpse at the town that raised Morella’s greatest hero,” Marion explained, following Iliana’s line of sight. The blacksmith steered her towards a table lined with more burly patrons who raised their tankards in salute. “I think you might have just made their entire year by showing up.” As she sat Iliana down at the table, she called to the bartender, “Vaughn! A tankard of your finest!”

“Iliana! Where have you been all this time?” questioned Selasi, the local baker she and Kade used to buy bread rolls from. “Rubbing elbows with the king? Plundering ships with the orcs? I’ve missed my favorite customers. Where is your brother by the way? Is he here too?”

“No, I wish,” Iliana shook her head, wrapping her hands around the massive stein that was placed before her, although she did not drink. She would need her wits about her for the flight back to Undermount in the dark. “Kade’s back in Whitetower. He became an archivist for the king. You know how he loves his books.”

“That’s a shame,” noted the bartender, who had pulled up a seat nearby. “Kade always knew how to tell a good story.”

Iliana smiled slightly. “That’s not what you said when Kade was talking your ear off with his tales all night long.”

A round of raucous laughter went around the room and Iliana realized that everyone was listening in.

“So _maybe_ it got a little old hearing the same story over and over again,” Vaughn relented, holding his hands up. “But now the two of you have plenty of good material! Come on, lass! Tell us what went down! Is it true that you killed the drakna queen? With an arrow through the heart?”

“Oh, yes, but it was a group effort―”

Suddenly. Everyone was chiming in with their own queries and requests about Iliana’s adventure. 

“And that you battled Duchess Xenia at the elven Ancestral Masquerade?” shouted another patron over the din.

“Yes, but again it was―”

“And you seduced a Shadow Realm beast?”

Iliana’s mouth fell open. _How did they even know about that?_ She resisted the urge to scowl. _Mal. He probably spilled in some Whitetower tavern._ “I don’t know if I would say I _seduced_ it. Just gave it a bit of false flattery.”

“But you _did_ seduce the dark prince, right?” someone asked from the crowd. “You tricked him into believing that you loved him so you could capture him?”

Iliana winced, her heart clenching. “Technically―”

“Oh, that damned prince,” Marion hissed, shaking her head. “What I wouldn’t give to kick his royal ass. What kind of coward kills his own brother?”

“And the Crown Prince no less! The brave Prince Baldur, may he rest in peace.”

“I heard the king was devastated. Imagine losing one son and having to imprison the other…”

“I don’t know how you could stomach that, Iliana. Confronting such a vile man―”

“It wasn’t like that!” Iliana snapped suddenly, her temper lashing out. Her fingers tightened around her pint in a white-knuckled grip. “Prince Baldur was _not_ as great and kind as you are led to believe. He was awful and cruel to his brother, and King Arlan was no better. He favored one son and pretended the other didn’t exist for years.” Iliana had no idea where this sudden anger had come from, but now that she started spewing, she could not stop. “Aerin was corrupted by the Shadow Court and easily manipulated by the Dreadlord because of how poorly he was treated by his own family.”

A hush fell over the tavern, every set of lips parting in surprise. Everyone hung onto Iliana’s impassioned words, completely enthralled by this new bit of gossip about the royal family.

“What are you saying, lass?” Marion asked, laying a hand on Iliana’s shoulder. “That the Crown Prince deserved to die? That the other Valleros prince was innocent?”

Iliana blew out a sharp breath. “ _No_. No, of course not,” she amended, shaking her head. “Baldur was not the good man people say he was, but he didn’t deserve to die. And Aerin…” 

Iliana trailed off, at a loss. She had not allowed herself to think of the two princes for months. What _was_ Aerin? The answer should have been simple. He certainly wasn’t innocent. He had killed Baldur and deceived the party for weeks so that he could obtain the shards. But Iliana simply could not accept that he was all bad. Despite everything that had happened, despite the web of lies he had spun, Iliana had seen glimpses of the truth, of the _real_ Aerin―or at least the Aerin that could have been, had the Dreadlord not gotten his claws in the young prince. 

“There is good in Aerin. Or at least there was,” Iliana continued, clearing her throat. She stared down into the swirling amber liquid, meeting the gaze of her own reflection as she thought of the unicorn Aerin had saved, the moonblooms he had marveled over, the truths he had revealed about his family, the kisses they had shared. Iliana swallowed. Hard. “I don’t know the true nature of the Shadow Court’s influence on him, but there was light in Aerin. And the Dreadlord snuffed it out.”

A grave silence settled over the tavern once more as each occupant let the weight of this new information sink in. Iliana felt lightheaded, nearly dizzy with the heady mix of her conflicting emotions. She was… angry. And sad, although she did not know why. And on top of that, she suddenly felt very lost, like a small ship in the middle of a vast and violent sea.

“Well, that’s tragic,” Vaughn eventually stated, finally breaking the silence. A hesitant wave of laughter rolled throughout the room. “Good riddance to the Dreadlord, then. Who knows who else he could have snared if you hadn’t stopped him.”

Iliana smiled wearily. That, she could agree with. “Good riddance indeed.”

There was a short lull in the conversation, then the volley of questions started up once more.

“So, did you really fight off grobtars with a bunch of orc pirates?”

“Were you guys really behind the murder of the Mayor of Port Parnassus?”

“Is it true that you punched the High Priest in the face?”

Iliana’s fingers tightened even more around her tankard as she smiled politely and did her best to field the onslaught of questions. 

* * *

A few hours later, Iliana finally emerged from the tavern, belly full of free food and mind thoroughly exhausted from all of the prodding and questioning. Tired, but unwilling to rent a room for the night when she had a perfectly comfortable bed awaiting her in a guest bedroom at the Starfury manor, Iliana trudged back through the empty streets of Riverbend to the stables she had left Kadara in. 

Her mind was still reeling with all of the thoughts and emotions she had unexpectedly confronted tonight. Before embarking on her current trip around Morella, Iliana had been staying in Whitetower to be close to Kade as he worked in the palace. And it was certainly nice that Mal and Nia were nearby too. But in all of the time she had spent there, Iliana steered clear of the palace and any mention of the Valleros family when she could. There was something about the royals that made her head spin and her blood boil.

Iliana slowed to a halt in the middle of a small road that led out of town, her fingers automatically reaching into the front pocket of her pack. She drew out the golden ring, which glinted in the moonlight, and brushed her thumb over the embossed sigil.

_I want you to have this. It bears the sigil of my royal line. If you are ever in trouble, show it to whoever’s in charge. They’ll know you’re protected._

Iliana did not know why she still kept the signet ring. It had no value to her beyond what she could get by pawning it off. And there was no protection to be gained from holding it. She was pretty sure everyone in Morella knew of her now and those who didn’t, she could most certainly handle if they meant her any harm. 

Iliana looked up, eyeing the field that bordered the road. She should just toss the damned thing away. But as Iliana wound back her arm, preparing to chuck the ring into the tall grass, she found that she simply could not do it.

She glared at the ring in her palm, wishing she could undo the conversation that had merited its reception, although the words fell flat in her own head. Iliana was about to tuck the ring back into her satchel and continue on her way when a sudden, intense sensation came over her.

Iliana’s heart quickened, the hair on the back of her arms and neck standing on end. Her breath came short and fast, sounding loud in her own ears. Her fingertips fluttered to her chest, feeling her pulse pound rapidly beneath. She felt dizzy. Lightheaded.

She felt _afraid_.

But this was not a panic attack. No, somehow, Iliana knew that these feelings were not even her own. This was an echo of something else, of emotions that belonged to someone familiar, although she had never experienced something like this before.

Iliana had no idea how she knew this, but the feeling in her gut was certain. “ _Kade._ ”

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. She needed to return to Whitetower. Immediately.

Iliana slipped the signet ring onto her thumb and ran.


	3. Smoke Signals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Whitetower, Iliana picks up on Kade's trail.

_Iliana sat on the front doorstep, rolling a stalk of wheat between her small hands as she gazed out of the country road that led into the heart of Riverbend. The sun was low on the horizon and dusk had begun to fall. A gentle wind swept low over the plains, stirring the fields of corn Iliana had spent most of her twelfth summer sowing and tangling in her long, silken hair. She shivered, rubbing her hands over her arms to conserve warmth._

_“Come inside and eat, Ana,” Amphitryon called from inside the kitchen. “Supper is ready!”_

_“I’m waiting for Kade!” Iliana responded, wrapping her arms around her knees and tucking them to her chest. Behind her, the floorboards of the old farmhouse creaked beneath Amphitryon’s old leather boots as he came to stand in the doorway._

_“That boy’s not back yet?” he asked, leaning against the frame and shoving his weathered hands into the pockets of his faded trousers. He squinted at the sky, the deeply sun-tanned skin around his honey brown eyes crinkling at the edges. “It’s nearly dark.”_

_“I know.” Iliana frowned, chewing her lip as worry creased her youthful features. “I think something’s happened to him, Amphitryon. We should go look for him.”_

_“Now what makes you think that?” the old farmer asked, easing himself to sit beside her, his joints popping as he did. “You kids are always running around past sunset. It’s why I’ve got so many gray hairs!”_

_Iliana could not bring herself to laugh. She shook her head, green eyes insistent. “This is different. If we’re out at dark, we’re together.”_

_“And why aren’t you together right now?”_

_Iliana glanced down, her face blushing violet as she mumbled, “Kade is out on a dare.”_

_Amphitryon’s snowy brows lowered, gaze growing suspicious. “A dare doing what, Iliana?”_

_Iliana mumbled something into her forearm as she set her chin atop her knees._

_“What was that?”_

_“I said, I dared him to shear off a tuft of wool from Benson’s black rams,” Iliana repeated, louder this time._

_“Iliana…” Amphitryon began, voice full of disapproval._

_“I thought he would be back by now!” Iliana protested, her hands balling into her sleeves. “It shouldn’t take this long just for a little bit of fluff.”_

_“For you, maybe.” The old man pursed his lips, running his hands through his thinning hair. “Benson’s bighorns are ornery beasts and getting around those creatures ain’t easy. Kade isn’t like you, Iliana. He’s smart, but he’s not as quick and clever as you. That’s why the two of you have to watch each other’s backs. Right?”_

_“Of course,” she nodded, briefly meeting the farmer’s eyes before gazing out at the empty dirt road once more._

_“Well, then. I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Amphitryon sighed, clapping his hands on his knees and standing. “I imagine that boy would get in more trouble with Benson than he would with those rams if I went down to get him. I’m sure he’ll be back soon. Until then, you should eat. No use waiting on an empty stomach.”_

_Iliana felt the weight of the farmer’s warm hand as it settled on her small shoulder, squeezing gently before releasing. She twirled the wheat stalk in her hand as Amphitryon’s footsteps retreated into the house, feeling at once worried and pensive._

Kade isn’t like you, Iliana. He’s smart, but he’s not as quick and clever as you. That’s why the two of you have to watch each other’s backs. Right?

_Iliana stood, tossing the wheat aside. Her little ten-year-old brother was somewhere out there and whether he needed her help or not, Iliana was going to find him and bring him home. Dinner could wait. She glanced over her shoulder, breathing in the smell of chicken and spiced potatoes, then turned and leapt off the front porch, bounding down the road to Benson’s farm._

_A few minutes later, she hurled herself over the wooden fence that bordered the field where the bighorns roamed. Immediately, her gaze fell upon the silhouette of a great oak tree, backlit by the dying sunlight. Beneath the tree were several large figures with curling horns that glinted in the moonlight. And crouched in the branches above…_

_“By the Gods, Kade,” Iliana muttered, pressing her fingers to her temples. “How did you manage to mess up this badly?”_

_Making up the plan as she went, Iliana silently crept through the tall grass, making her way toward the tree and the small herd of bighorn sheep. They were crowded at the base of the trunk, clearly waiting for Kade to come down, which meant she had to find a way to lure them away. How exactly she was supposed to do that, she did not yet know. Iliana was almost to the edge of the ring the bighorns had formed when she waved her hands, getting Kade’s attention._

_“Iliana? Is that you?”_

_Iliana slashed her arms, signaling for him to be quiet. She saw his silhouette nod and breathed a sigh of relief. Making sure her movements were exaggerated enough, she pointed to herself, then the rams, then some point in the distance. Then she waved her hand at him and pointed in the direction of home._

I will lead them away and you will run.

 _Kade held up his hands as if to ask,_ How?

_That was a good question._

_Iliana waved her hand dismissively to indicate,_ Don’t worry about it, _but they both knew that meant,_ I don’t know, but I’m going to do something anyway.

_Kade nodded and Iliana continued forward. She spotted a rock larger than her fist on the ground and thought to use it as a distraction when her foot landed upon a brittle twig, snapping it in half._

_Iliana winced as the sound echoed throughout the clearing and twelve sets of beady brown eyes fell upon her. She swallowed hard. “Easy, now. I’m not here to hurt you.” She held up her empty hands, palms out. “See?”_

_The one nearest to her let out a great huff through its massive nostrils, its breath clouding the air as its front hoof stomped the ground._

_“Iliana…” Kade said hesitantly from the tree._

_The bighorns charged._

_Iliana shrieked, turning on her heel and sprinting in the opposite direction, letting her long limbs carry her as fast as she could as she screamed, “Run, Kade!”_

_Behind her, Iliana could just make out the rustling of leaves and a soft thud over the sound of pounding hooves. As she flew across the field, she risked a glance back and wished she didn’t. She had perhaps five yards on the leading bighorn, which was not nearly enough. “Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.”_

_Iliana pumped her legs harder, the wind whipping her hair. Since when were sheep so_ fast _? No wonder Kade had difficulty shearing the wool off of one of them when Iliana could barely get a lead on them. She wasn’t sure how long she had been running for until she finally came upon another stretch of fencing that kept the bighorn sheep in the field. Iliana was almost there when she felt something slam into her back, knocking the wind out of her and hurling forward._

_As Iliana hurtled towards the ground, she remembered a traveling mercenary had once told her that rolling was the best way to absorb the impact of a fall. She tucked her forearms to her chest, her shoulder taking the brunt of her tumble as she rolled. Iliana bit back a grunt of pain as a large stone dug into her spine, but she did not have time to wallow. In an instant, she was back on her feet, breathing hard and racing for the wooden fence._

_Panting, she got her foot up on the bottom slat of the fence and began to pull herself up and over. Before she could plant her other foot, one of the rams butted the sole of her boot with its horns, launching her up and over the fence. This time, Iliana did not have the time nor the skill to roll and soften her impact. Her body slammed into the dirt road on the other side, hard. Iliana wheezed as she stared up at the sky, which was now the same bluish-purple as the bruises that were undoubtedly spreading across her flesh at that very moment._

_“Iliana!”_

_She slowly shoved herself up to her elbows, head spinning as her gaze landed upon the horde of bighorns that snorted at her from the other side of the fence. The other side, because she had made it out. Iliana exhaled in relief, then collapsed back against the ground, content to just lay there for a while and catch her breath. Every inch of her body ached, both from the strain in her muscles from running and from getting battered by a ram. She flexed her legs, grimacing as she felt her right ankle twinge. Great. It was probably sprained._

_“Gods, Iliana, Are you okay?” Kade’s head popped into her line of vision, his eyes wide with concern. “You just flew ten feet in the air.”_

_Iliana huffed a laugh, then immediately winced as pain lanced through her ribs. “Ten? It was at least twelve.” She held out her hand. “Come on. Help me up.”_

_Kade gripped her palm and pulled her to her feet, gently dusting off her clothes as she prodded her own shoulder, hissing at the tenderness. “You okay?”_

_Iliana glanced over at him, then began to walk down the road in the direction of home, a slight limp in her step. “Yeah, just bruised. Are you?”_

_“Just a few scratches.” Kade shrugged, walking alongside her. “But I think most of them are from climbing the tree.” He nudged her shoulder. “Thanks for bailing me out. You didn’t have to do that.”_

_“What, and leave you hanging in that tree all night long?” Iliana raised her brows before shooting him a crooked grin. She reached over, slinging her arm across his shoulders and rustling his hair, even as her aching limbs_ ― _and Kade_ ― _protested. “You’re my little brother. I have to look out for you. After all, it was my dare that got you into this mess in the first place.”_

_“Gah! Would you stop that?” Kade grumbled, batting her hand away. Iliana laughed, sides aching, although she found that she did not really mind. Kade scowled, shaking his head. Then, he gripped the wrist she had slung over his shoulder and wrapped his other arm around her torso, alleviating some of Iliana’s weight. Almost immediately, walking became easier and less hindered by her sprained ankle._

_They trekked down the road, excitedly chattering about their daring escape from the bighorns and arguing over exactly how high the last ram had bucked Iliana over the fence. Before long, the familiar farmhouse came into sight, the front door still wide open, waiting to welcome them home._

_“Iliana…” Kade began as he helped her off the old dirt road and onto the soft grass that surrounded the house. “I’m sorry you got hurt rescuing me. I know that I’m not fast and witty like you, but_ ―”

_“Hey.” Iliana flicked his ear. “You’re strong in your own way, brother. Besides, do you really want to be like me? I just barely escaped with my life from a bunch of fancy sheep.”_

_“Iliana, I’m being serious,” Kade frowned, his youthful features creasing into a pout as he craned his neck to avoid her fingers. “If it hadn’t been for you, I would have spent all night hiding in that tree. You’re always the one getting us out of messes. But one of these days, you won’t have to worry about me anymore. I’m going to be able to take care of myself.”_

_Iliana’s brow creased. “Well, even if you can get yourself out of trouble on your own, that doesn’t mean you have to,” she assured him, gently punching his arm. “Because no matter what happens, I’m always going to be there for you. No matter what. Partially because you’re my little brother, but also because you’re my best friend.”_

_“But if you’re always looking after me, then who’s going to look after you?”_

_“You, silly,” Iliana replied, as if the answer was blatantly obvious. “We’re a team, remember? Just like Amphitryon always says. I watch your back and you watch mine. It doesn’t matter if I’m helping you out more right now because I know when I need you, you’ll be there. Because we_ ― _”_

_“Because we’re family,” Kade finished and Iliana grinned._

_“Exactly.”_

_Together, they hobbled up the front steps to the house, breathing in the scent of a delicious supper waiting inside._

_“Hey, Iliana?” Kade paused in the doorway, pulling her to a stop._

_“What?”_

_Kade grabbed her wrist with one hand, then reached into his pocket with the other. He pulled something out, pressing it into her palm. It was… soft. And fuzzy?_

_Iliana held up her hand, casting the object into the light. It was a black tuft of sheep’s wool._

_“You did it!”_

_He grinned, helping her inside. “A dare is a dare, sister.”_

_Iliana rolled her eyes, then reached to tousle his hair once more. “Maybe Benson’s bighorns were too easy. Looks like next time, I’ll have to give you a real challenge.”_

_“A_ real _challenge?” Kade gaped after her as she continued on into the kitchen, doing her best to hide her limp from the farmer. He sighed heavily, shutting the front door behind him before following his sister. “Gods help me.”_

* * *

Iliana nearly sagged with relief as the clouds cleared and she was greeted by the sparkling lights of Whitetower sprawled below. She used her shoulder to wipe at her bleary eyes, which had gotten teary from the brutal wind. Her hair, which had been pulled back into a tight, thick braid, whipped behind her like a banner as she and Kadara soared through the sky. 

Iliana’s back and legs were sore from riding, her stomach clenched and growling. They had only stopped three times since leaving Riverbend―once in Port Parnassus and twice by an unnamed river so the poor drake could rehydrate and Iliana could stretch her legs. But aside from those brief interludes, they had been flying almost nonstop ever since last night. Although the odd sensation she had experienced on the outskirts of Riverbend had long since faded, Iliana’s gut would not untwist itself and her chest was still tight with dread.

As if she recognized the palace on her own, Kadara began to dive, streaking for the gleaming turrets like a fallen star. Iliana held on tight to the reins, her stomach swooping as they plummeted. Soon, the roads and grand structures of Whitetower came into startling focus as they hurtled closer, soaring over the rooftops.

They touched down on the palace terrace that branched off of the main entrance hall, startling the guards who were stationed there. As Iliana clambered out of the drake’s saddles, she gazed around at the various flora that bloomed here. The sweet, night-filled scent of jasmine flooded her nose as the fountain tinkled peacefully to her left. Unbidden, she could not help but think of the last time she had flown here, when a certain prince had been waiting to greet her.

“Lady Iliana!” The guards stood at attention, their armor clinking as they saluted her. “We were not expecting you. Should we send a page to the King to let him know you are here?”

“That’s not necessary,” she replied, glancing around the empty garden. “I’m just here for my brother. Have you seen him?”

“No, milady. Perhaps you could find him…” The guard frowned, clearly trying to think of an answer. “...in the archives?”

Iliana resisted the urge to roll her eyes. What a brilliant suggestion: check the royal archives for the archivist. As if she did not already plan to do that. “Thank you,” she ground out. “I will be sure to check there.”

She unstrapped her pack and buckled on her sword belt, although she left her bow, quiver, and gauntlet with Kadara’s saddlebag. She did not suspect she needed any weapons, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Iliana grabbed Kadara’s reins, guiding the drake toward one of the guards. “Take her to the stables. And make sure she has plenty of water and lots of apples.” She stroked Kadara’s silken feathers once more, then turned to go. She called over her shoulder, “Be gentle and watch your fingers.”

“I―my fingers?”

Iliana did not respond as she continued through the archway that led deeper into the palace. It was quiet. Still. Nothing like the hustle and bustle she had seen last time she was here, when she had been celebrated for protecting the Realm. She could not explain it, the air of somberness that seemed to permeate throughout the winding halls, as if even the palace itself was still mourning for its fallen princes. 

Iliana checked Kade’s room first which was, as she expected, empty and in its usual state of disarray. His bed was unmade and clothes were strewn about, but what caught Iliana’s eye was his bookshelf. Kade’s books, which were always kept in an orderly fashion unlike the rest of his belongings, were spilled across the floor. It looked as if he had ransacked the shelf in search of something specific and did not bother to put the rest of the books back.

_Odd…_

Iliana was about to leave and scope out the royal archives when her gaze snagged on a slight crescent-shaped groove in the marble floor by the foot of Kade’s bed, barely illuminated by the moonlight. She crouched, skimming her fingertip along the mark to where it met the bedpost. Curious, Iliana grabbed the edge of the bed and pulled, dragging the post along the scratch in the stone floor.

There, wedged between Kade’s bed and the wall it had been pressed against, sat a small wooden box that Iliana did not recognize. Iliana plucked it off the ground and sat down on the edge of Kade’s mattress as she began to inspect it. It was made of polished wood that bore a few scratches, but was otherwise in good condition. A metal clasp held the box closed although the lock was popped open. Iliana swallowed the lump in her throat, then opened the box.

Inside lay all sorts of trinkets, including a stone that matched those that sat at the bottom of the river that bordered Riverbend, and several items Iliana had sent him while traveling. A drake feather, a pressed night-blooming flower from Undermount, a shell from the Shimmering Isles, a tuft of lapna fur. And amongst all of that, were her letters.

Iliana rifled through the letters she sent, her heart stopping in her chest when she realized that one of them was not hers, but one of Kade’s. It was clearly unfinished, something he had intended to send her but never completed.

_Iliana,_

_I’m relieved to hear that you reached Undermount safely. I still can’t believe you traveled through the Deadwood alone. When you get back, we need to have a serious talk about bravery and stupidity because you are walking a very fine line right now. You’re approaching Mal-like levels of recklessness. Either way, tell Tyril, Adrina, and Valir I said hello._

_Things are well at the palace. I’ve been keeping busy with the archives and my own studies. The head librarian has just asked me to record everything I can remember about the Shadow Realm and its creatures. It is not a fun task, but the raise in my pay was enough to convince me. Remember when we had to perform tricks in the town square of Riverbend just to pay for rent? We have come a long way from who we once were._

_I found something strange in the library the other day. As you know, the elves worship twelve gods, six of the Old and six of the New. But what is interesting is that while there is an abundance of information on the six New Gods, which were elves from the Great War, there is next to nothing about the Old Gods._

Iliana’s breath hitched in her throat. The Old Gods… An old vision surfaced, one she had discarded and cast aside as just a strange dream born out of stress and anxiety after the battle with the Dreadlord.

_All accounts of them are conflicting. Some accounts report that they are made of the Light while others claim that they preceded its appearance in our world. One author even asserts that they created the Light, just as they created the Shadow._

_The most interesting thing of all is that one account claims that the Old Gods are still alive, that they are out there somewhere, living in secret, waiting to be discovered._

Here, Kade’s writing became more cramped, almost frantic.

_And the strange thing is, I believe this. I know it to be true. I can feel it, Iliana. With more certainty than I have ever felt about anything._

_I think they are calling to me. There are no voices but I have this feeling in my gut that I cannot explain. I think they even want me to find them._

There were small holes in the paper, where Kade’s quill had punctured the parchment from pressing too hard.

 _When will you be returning to Whitetower? This will be easier to explain in person. I can show you what I have found and maybe we can search together. Please hurry back Iliana. I do not know if I can wait any longer. Even now, I feel the pull. I have to_ ―

Kade’s writing ended abruptly there. Iliana flipped the page over, searching for the rest of that sentence. Her heart lodged in her throat as she saw more of his handwriting, jagged and almost mad. Words were scattered about the page, nearly illegible in their hasty creation.

_Northeast beyond the mountains,_

_Breathe and you will drown._

_At the edge, do not falter,_

_Step off into lands unbound,_

_And hear the song of fire and fury._

_Outward, inward, and beyond_

_Lays a bargain that cannot be broken,_

_A truth that cannot be forgotten._

That was it. Iliana flipped the piece of parchment over and over, as if by simply examining the letter more thoroughly, new answers would magically appear. But of course, they didn’t. Dread pooled in Iliana’s stomach as she stood, folding the unfinished letter and tucking it into the inside of her cloak as she stood. 

What did any of that mean? The Old Gods, a call, and the riddle? Did any of that have to do with the dream she had months ago? Iliana had a sinking suspicion that it did. Was Kade truly planning to go searching for the gods? And if he was, had he already left? 

_I do not know if I can wait any longer._

Iliana rushed out the door, nearly sprinting through the empty halls of the palace toward the archives. She passed by several guards on her way, ignoring their confused looks and salutes.

Kade couldn’t have left already. Didn’t he see how suspicious all of this was? A mysterious calling? Didn’t he know how dangerous it would be to go anywhere in Morella alone? Panic began to rise in Iliana, fear tightening her throat. Kade had never traveled around the realm on his own, and he was not skilled like she was with weapons or magic. He could not protect himself from beasts or bandits. 

Iliana’s heart pounded at the thought of her little brother all alone in the middle of nowhere, with no one there to watch over him. That was her job. She was his big sister and she was supposed to protect him. Iliana had promised that she always would and had already broken that vow once. She could not do it again.

_Please be here. Please do not be gone._

Iliana burst through the doors of the palace archives, the abrupt sound echoing throughout the cavernous room. “Kade!”

The head archivist, an old woman with a stern face, whipped her head in Iliana’s direction. “Shhh!”

“My brother,” Iliana panted, starting for the gargantuan stacks of books to investigate. “Kade. Have you seen him?”

“Young lady, it is far past midnight,” the archivist snapped, glaring through her glasses. “The archives are closed _._ You need to leave. And where do you get off thinking that you can just barge in here screaming―”

Iliana paused, turning on her heel as her voice dropped to a growl. “Have you seen my brother.”

The older woman puffed up her chest indignantly, as if she found Iliana’s stubbornness and tone to be offensive. “Your brother is not here. _No one is._ Because as I already told you, the archives are _closed._ ”

“ _You_ are clearly here,” Iliana snapped, moving to delve further into the archive. Kade had to be here. There were very few other places in the palace that Iliana knew he liked to frequent. If he wasn’t here and he wasn’t in any of those other places, then that would mean he had gone and if he was gone―

“Lady Iliana, is that you?”

Iliana froze, her boots squeaking against the marble floor as she abruptly came to a stop and turned. King Arlan and two members of his Royal Guard stood in the entryway of the library, looking at her with a mixture of confusion and amusement. Despite her misgivings about the royals, Iliana swept into a low bow. “Your Majesty.”

“None of that,” Arlan replied, waving his hand dismissively and gesturing for Iliana to stand. “What is this I hear about my Champion running about my halls like a bat out of the seven hells?”

Iliana sighed, running her fingers through her hair and then snagging them on the tight plaits of her braid. “I’m searching for my brother.”

“Ah, yes. Kade.” The king sighed, and Iliana realized that he was still dressed in his nightclothes. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and he looked almost gaunt, a far cry from how he had appeared the last time he and Iliana had meant. His sorrow was almost a tangible thing and Iliana found herself wondering how much of his anguish was for Baldur and how much was for the son he lost to the shadows. “He missed dinner with the court this evening. And the last.” He gave Iliana a look of appraisal. “I assume you have already checked his quarters?”

“Yes, I just came from there.”

“Hm.” King Arlan frowned, combing his fingers through his snow-white beard. He glanced at his knights, then sighed heavily again. There was a sad glint in his eyes as he spoke, “Perhaps you will have some luck in the dungeons.”

“The dungeons?” Iliana echoed. “Why would he be there?”

“It appears that when Kade is not working in the library, he has taken to keeping my son company.” For a moment, Arlan looked impossibly despondent as he stared off into the endless rows of shelves. “Which is more than I can say for myself.”

Several thoughts rushed through Iliana’s mind, the first being that Kade had never once mentioned speaking to Aerin. Not in his letters nor when she was home in Whitetower. The second thought was that King Arlan had just implied that he had not visited his only son, who still lived within these walls, for months. 

Iliana’s blood began to boil and she felt her nails dig into her palms. Had the king not learned his lesson? Part of the reason he had lost Aerin in the first place was by neglecting him. And yet here he was, doing the same thing again.

Iliana ground her teeth, then exhaled sharply through her nose as she bowed stiffly. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said in a saccharine voice, for she did not trust herself to speak freely lest she lose her temper and insult Morella’s monarch. “I will go check the dungeons right now.”

“I will have the Royal Guard search the rest of the palace, in the meantime.”

She nodded graciously and stalked off, passing the king, his guards, and the head archivist, who looked both satisfied and relieved to see Iliana go. Iliana had just emerged from the library and into the hall beyond when Arlan called, “Iliana! I have one request of you.”

She clenched her fists, then half-turned. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

The king hesitated, wringing his hands. For a moment, Iliana thought she saw shame flicker across his pale countenance. “If you see my boy, tell him… Tell him I said hello.”

This time, Iliana could not leash her temper. “ _Hello_ ?” she retorted, disdain creeping into her voice. King’s Champion, Protector of the Realm or no, Iliana knew that she could very well get herself thrown into the dungeon for speaking out like this, but she did not care. “He is your _son,_ Arlan. He deserves more than a simple hello. He has _always_ deserved more from you. I will not insult him by playing messenger and proving that nothing has changed. If you wish to greet him, you may do so yourself.”

Iliana turned on her heel and continued on towards the dungeons. She half expected to get tackled by the king’s guards and arrested for her outburst, but when she rounded the corner and still remained unshackled, Iliana let loose a breath of relief.

Good. Perhaps that meant the king had listened.

If only he had done so sooner.

* * *

Once upon a time, in a land shrouded in darkness, there lived a young hero who loved his kingdom―

_“Hah! And rah!”_

_Aerin ground his teeth, a muscle in his brow twitching as he started over._

Once upon a time, in a land shrouded in darkness―

_“Take that, foul beast! Hiyah!”_

Once upon―

_“DIE!”_

_Aerin slammed the book shut with an exasperated sigh and let his head fall against the colored panes of the window he sat beside. Of all the windows Baldur chose to be a menace beneath today, why did it have to be the one that looked out from Aerin’s favorite reading spot? As his crown dug into his skull, Aerin gazed out the window at the young Crown Prince, who was currently terrorizing an elderberry bush with his sparring sword._

_Baldur was only thirteen, several years Aerin’s senior, but he was already brash and arrogant, with an insatiable hunger for glory. While Aerin spent his free time reading and solving puzzles, Baldur was always outside practicing sword fighting and pretending to fight off all sorts of creatures. In fact, whenever he_ was _found with a book, it was typically one about all of the creatures he dreamed of fighting._

 _Aerin slid from his perch, prepared to find a new spot to read_ ― _perhaps the palace terrace where the new gardenias had just been planted_ ― _when he heard a sudden cry._

_Aerin dropped his book and raced back toward the window just in time to see his brother get knocked to the ground by a cluster of kromps. “Baldur!”_

_Aerin raced out of the room, grabbing his own sword, which sat sheathed against the wall, on his way out. He rushed past several guards, pumping his little legs as fast as they would go. He flew down the two flights of stairs that took him to the ground floor and sprinted out the set of glass doors that led to the outdoor gardens._

_“Prince Aerin?” inquired one of the guards stationed by the doors as he went racing by._

_“Baldur… is in trouble… with kromps!” Aerin called over his shoulder as he kept running, following the sounds of snarling and yelling._

_“Kromps? Wait! The females are poisonous!”_

_Aerin heard the pounding of footsteps behind him but he did not dare stop for a single second. As soon as Baldur and the nasty little creatures came into view, Aerin unsheathed his sword, tossing the scabbard aside. Baldur had gotten to his feet and was now swinging wildly at the kromps. His fine clothes were torn and tattered, but he seemed to be otherwise unharmed. From what Aerin could see, there appeared to be no females in the horde, which was good._

_“Baldur!” Aerin shouted as he approached, using the flat of his blade and his boot to bat the kromps away._

_Baldur looked up, his expression quickly turning to a scowl. “What are_ you _doing here? This is my fight!”_

 _Aerin’s lips parted in surprise. Was his brother_ actually _upset he had come to his aid? Aerin dodged as a snarling kromp launched itself at his leg. “You’re not wearing any armor! You don’t have protection!”_

_Aerin fought his way closer, doing his best not to actually harm any of the small creatures as he positioned himself at Baldur’s back. Baldur twisted, huffing indignantly. He shoved Aerin’s shoulder. “Leave, whelp. I don’t need your help.”_

_Aerin gaped at him. He could_ not _be serious right now. Aerin was about to protest when his gaze caught on another kromp, which was bigger than the others and almost purplish. A female._

_“Look out!” Aerin cried, pushing Baldur aside as the female kromp leapt. Aerin swung with his sword but ended up backhanding the creature aside._

_“Hey!” Baldur protested, elbowing his younger brother in the ribs. “We could have stuffed that one!”_

_“Prince Baldur! Prince Aerin!”_

_The guard that had been stationed by the door charged in, flanked by one other. Shielded by their metal armor, they did not bother drawing their swords. Instead, they rushed into the fray, impervious to the kromps’ needle-like teeth, and scooped the princes up, tossing them over their shoulders before retreating to the palace._

_“Unhand me at once!” Baldur demanded and Aerin heard the metallic clang as his brother uselessly pounded his fists against the knight’s back. “I was not done fighting!”_

_“Baldur, let it go!” Aerin pleaded, hanging limply over his guard’s shoulder. “You’ll get another chance when you are better prepared!”_

_“Agh!”_

_When they were safely within the palace walls, the knights set the young princes down, gauntleted hands righting their crowns_ ― _which had miraculously stayed on_ ― _and dusting off their clothes._

_“Are you two alright?” one of the royal guards asked. “Shall we send for a healer?”_

_“No, I am not alright!” Baldur huffed, stomping his foot. “I had that completely under control! And then you lot barged in and ruined everything!”_

_“We’re alright,” Aerin answered softly, sheathing his sword. He was relieved to note that there was no kromp blood on his sword, which meant he had not seriously harmed any of the creatures. He had a feeling that they were innocent in this whole debacle. Baldur probably provoked them into attacking while he was giving that berry bush hell. It very well might have been the kromps’ home._

_“You!” Baldur snarled, whirling on Aerin. “This is your fault! You took away my glory!”_

_“They’re just kromps, Baldur_ ―”

_Aerin wheezed, the wind rushing out of his lungs as Baldur slammed the pommel of his sword into his brother’s gut. Aerin doubled over, gasping for air. He heard the guards’ armor clank as they jerked back in surprise, but neither moved to help Aerin nor reprimand the Crown Prince. Even at this age, Aerin understood their silence. Standing up to Baldur put their jobs at risk._

_“Do not ever interfere with my affairs again,” Baldur demanded when Aerin finally straightened, his chest heaving. “Do you understand me?”_

_Aerin swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Yes, brother. I am sorry.”_

_“Hmph.” Baldur huffed, crossing his arms. “As you should be.”_

_As Baldur turned to leave, one of the knights suddenly spoke up. “Your Grace! Your hand is bleeding.”_

_Simultaneously, Baldur and Aerin glanced to the Crown Prince’s hands, which were stained with dirt, but otherwise unmarred. Then, Aerin slowly looked down at his own hand._

_“Oh!” he exclaimed, his mouth suddenly dry as he took notice of the ruby-red blood that coated the back of his hand, flowing freely from a crescent-shaped arc of small teeth marks. Aerin’s legs suddenly felt weak beneath him and his vision doubled. “The female kromp… she bit me.”_

_“Alert the king and queen,” one of the guards ordered. “Get a healer. Tell them to bring the leeches.”_

_“Leeches?” Baldur echoed. “Whatever for?”_

_“The poison.”_

_“Oh, dear,” Aerin murmured, promptly before his knees crumpled and he fainted._

* * *

Aerin awoke to a loud clanging sound.

He groaned, rubbing at his bleary eyes. His cell was still dark. All of the lanterns had not yet been lit, which meant that morning had not arrived. But the darkness of his prison was not absolute. When his eyes cleared, he could just make out the two semi-circles of silvery scar tissue that stood out in stark contrast on the back of his hand. Aerin flexed his fingers, his body slowly regaining awareness.

Aerin let out a sharp breath as that clanging sound started up once more, ricocheting around off the stone walls of his cell and rattling around his cell. He swore to himself, pulling the pillow out from under his head and using it to cover his ears when someone spoke from just outside of his room.

“Rise and shine, princeling.”

Aerin’s breath caught in his throat. Suddenly, every nerve in his body went alight. He knew that voice. He would recognize it anywhere.

He shoved himself to his elbows. “Iliana.”

She stood just beyond the bars of his cell, an orb of light burning in her palm, casting her light in an eerie but ethereal glow. The Blade of Sol was clasped in her other hand, likely the origin of all that ruckus. Her brows were drawn, green eyes hard, and lips twisted into a scowl. 

For a moment Aerin could not breathe.

_Suddenly, he was back in the Deadwood, bounding over fallen trees and gnarled roots with a horde of drakna buzzing at his heels._

_“I’ve got this.”_

_The elf girl stepped forward before her companions, the first group of travelers Aerin had seen since he, Baldur, Lord Goffrey, and the rest of their party had entered this godsforsaken place that was known as the Deadwood. Aerin almost exhaled with relief as she unslung her bow and notched an arrow, relieved that he did not have to use his own powers to dig them out of this mess._

_Aerin was not prepared, however, to watch her arrow fly from that magnificent longbow of hers right over his head and skewer an entire row of drakna._

_“Bullseye.”_

_Aerin was certain his heart had stopped then and there. Where in the seven hells did this girl come from?_

As Aerin stared through the bars of his cell, he wondered how was it possible that even in a blazing fury, she still managed to leave him in awe.

Her emerald gaze roamed over his face, her eyes unreadable.

“Get up,” she ordered. “I need to talk to you.”


	4. Kindling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aerin makes an interesting proposition and Iliana reunites with an old friend to hatch a daring plan.

“Get up. I need to talk to you.”

Aerin slid to his feet, schooling his features into a mask of neutrality as he paced to the edge of his cell and braced his forearm against the metal bars. The bitter cold instantly settled in the moment he left the warmth of his bed, but Aerin willed his limbs not to quiver as he stared into the bright green eyes that were about level with his.

“How may I be of assistance to the King’s Champion?” he questioned, voice smooth as honey and kinder than any diplomat’s. 

“Cut that out. Is everything an act with you?” Iliana snapped, sheathing the Blade of Sol in its scabbard. “Would it kill you to be honest with me for once?”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Aerin scoffed, his demeanor shifting from curious to irritated like a flip of a coin. 

“I _never_ lied to you,” she fired back and the Orb of Light in her palm flared brighter.

“Really?” he shot back. “Need I remind you of the things you said last time we met?”

_I came here to find you. To be with you._

“Those weren't lies, Aerin!” Iliana snarled and Aerin sucked in a sharp breath, his arm falling away from the bars. He watched her eyes widen in shock, as if even she had not meant to let that slip loose.

_Remember that night together in the forest glade? Our kiss? That was real, Aerin. And it’s still real._

Aerin felt his heart falter in his chest for a split second.

No. _No._ She was just tricking him again, deceiving him to get whatever it was she came here for. “Do you seriously expect me to believe that?”

He watched the muscles of her slender neck contract as she swallowed and looked away. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “No.”

Aerin let out a harsh breath through his nose and he stepped back, folding his arms. He hoped he looked a little imposing, but really, he was attempting to subtly conserve warmth as the chill in his bones became more uncomfortable. “Why are you here? I thought you were in Riverbend.”

Her gaze flicked up to his, emerald eyes glinting like a predator’s in the silvery light of her Orb, although her voice was more gentle than he had heard it―imagined it―in a long time. “Did Kade tell you that?”

Aerin’s brows raised. He had not even considered that she knew her brother visited him, although he supposed he should have expected that. He did not know much about what a true relationship between siblings looked like, but Kade and Iliana seemed to be as close as any he had ever met.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice equally quiet now. “About four days ago.”

“Four days?” Iliana echoed and Aerin did not know what to make of her tone. It was at once filled with dread and hope. “When was the last time you saw him?”

Aerin’s brow furrowed. Why would she be asking that? “That was the last time.”

He watched as her jaw clenched ever so slightly and the line between her brows seemed to deepen. “And how often does he usually come… visit you?”

Ah, so perhaps she did not know as much as he originally thought. “Ever since you left Whitetower? Almost every day.”

“Hells,” Iliana swore, her lips pressing into a grim line. The light in her hand guttered and dimmed as if it had been buffeted by a malevolent wind.

The tone of her voice, how grave she suddenly seemed―Aerin did not like it one bit. “What is it? Why do you want to know?”

“That’s none of your business,” she snapped and Aerin wanted to roll his eyes. What was it with these two siblings, coming to him with the strangest of questions and refusing to explain why they asked?

“Have you not seen him yet?” Aerin asked as he took note of her plaited hair―which had always reminded him of a raven’s feathers―and the windswept strands that had come loose. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes, hinting at a severe lack of sleep. “When did you return?”

“Tonight,” Iliana replied, clearly distracted as her nimble fingers toyed with the edges of her cloak. “And no, I haven’t seen him yet.” She glanced around, worry creasing her features. “I had hoped to find him here…”

“Did you check the royal archives? Or his room?” Aerin supplied and immediately regretted it as Iliana’s head whipped in his direction, her eyes narrowing.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” she hissed, her free hand clenching into a fist. “ _Of course,_ I checked the most obvious places. Why would I come to the dungeons first?”

Aerin pursed his lips but did not bother to acknowledge that comment. “Perhaps he went out for a night on the town.”

Iliana rubbed her temples, sighing anxiously. “You’ve talked to him almost every day for the last few months. Does that sound like something Kade would do?”

Without his sister? Aerin shook his head. “No.” He tilted his head, gaze assessing. “What do you think he did?”

He watched as Iliana took her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it until it turned indigo. Then she reached into her cloak and pulled out a piece of folded parchment. “I don’t know why I’m even showing you this,” she muttered, holding the paper out through the bars.

Aerin shot her a cautious look, then carefully took the paper from her fingers, careful not to brush her skin. As he unfolded the parchment, he gestured for her to bring her light closer. Aerin stiffened ever so slightly as she came near, her warmth sinking into his skin, despite the metal barrier. He felt some of the ice in his veins thaw and almost closed his eyes in bliss.

Instead, he focused on reading the parchment, which appeared to be an unfinished letter from the bard.

Any warmth Aerin gained from Iliana’s close proximity instantly vanished the moment he saw the first mention of the Old Gods. His fingers tightened, holding the thin paper taut as he picked up speed, mouthing the words to himself. A leaden weight sunk into the pit of his stomach.

_I think they even want me to find them._

When Aerin finished reading, he muttered, “Damn it.”

“I think he went looking for the Old Gods,” Iliana murmured, reaching out to tap the corner of the letter. “There’s more on the back. A riddle maybe, I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Aerin flipped the page over and read in a whisper:

“ _Northeast beyond the mountains,_

_Breathe and you will drown._

_At the edge, do not falter,_

_Step off into lands unbound,_

_And hear the song of fire and fury._

_Outward, inward, and beyond_

_Lays a bargain that cannot be broken,_

_A truth that cannot be forgotten.”_

_“Northeast beyond the mountains… Breathe and you will drown,”_ Aerin repeated, a map of Morella clear in his mind. He knew the geography of the realm like the back of his hand. It was a bit of knowledge he had picked up during the lessons he took back when he was still being groomed to be a royal advisor. “This isn’t a riddle, Iliana,” he said slowly, glancing up at her. “These are directions.”

“Directions?”

Aerin nodded, pointing to the first two lines of Kade’s messy scrawl. “Look here. Morella is bordered on all sides by mountains, except for the western border. East of us lies the poison fields, which stretch far north. ‘Breathe and you will drown.’ If you breathe in the spores of the flora and fungi that grow there, you’ll die. Even touching them can be deadly, which is why you have to make sure your hands are covered so you don’t risk accidentally ingesting the poison.”

“And ‘lands unbound?’” Iliana asked.

Aerin shrugged, passing the letter back to her. “I’m afraid I do not know the exact geography. Perhaps if I was there, I could figure it out, but… I have never been that far beyond our borders.”

Iliana pursed her lips but nodded, carefully folding Kade’s letter and tucking it back into her cloak. “Thank you,” she murmured, taking a deep breath. Iliana straightened, a new resolve settling in as her fingers brushed over the pommel of her sword. “At least now I have a starting point.”

Aerin’s lips parted in disbelief. “You cannot honestly be planning to go after him.”

Iliana cut him a scathing glare. “Of course I am. He’s my brother. It’s my job to protect him.”

“I―You…” Aerin shook his head, fingers sifting through his tangle of dark curls. “Do you realize how dangerous this is?”

“From what you have just told me, I imagine it is _extremely_ dangerous, princeling.” Iliana scowled, stepping back from the bars. “But it is ten times more dangerous for Kade. That is why I have to go find him before he gets hurt. Or worse.”

“Listen to me, Iliana,” Aerin insisted, reaching through the bars for her hand, but she jerked away. He tried not to wince at that as he continued, “I told Kade not to go searching, and now I am telling _you._ This will not end well.”

 _“You knew?”_ Iliana’s eyes widened before narrowing to slivers of white and green. Her voice was venomous as she hissed, “You knew about his sudden fixation with these gods and you didn’t stop him?”

“What am I supposed to do when I’m locked in a cell?” Aerin snapped back and Iliana huffed. “I tried to convince him to drop it, Iliana, I swear. Kade only told me about it the last time I saw him and then he left before I could say anything else.”

Iliana pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and for a moment, Aerin worried she was about to cry. But then her hands fell away and she looked as determined as ever. “I still need to find him. I am _going_ to find him.”

“Iliana―” Aerin broke off. He knew there was no convincing her. She was as stubborn and loyal as a dog. He ground his teeth, mind working. He glanced down the corridor, eyeing the guards that stood by the exit.

“What, Aerin?” she demanded, scrutinizing him from head to toe. She followed his line of sight, brows raising.

Aerin swallowed the lump in his throat, then turned back to her, dropping his voice to a whisper. If he couldn’t convince Kade to stay, and he couldn’t convince Iliana, perhaps he could at least try to lessen the damage they were about to do. “Let me come with you.”

Iliana barked out a harsh laugh that made him flinch. “Absolutely not. Are you mad?”

Aerin’s brows drew together, lips tugging into a grimace. “Not as mad as the two of you. I am serious, Iliana. I’ve read almost every book in the archives. I know there’s something there that can be useful for your journey. You should not go alone.”

“Who said I’m going alone?” she retorted, settling one hand on her hip. “I would rather take any one of my friends before I even considered bringing you along. Even if you weren’t trapped behind these bars and under heavy guard, I would never take you with me. I trusted you once, Aerin. I’m not making that mistake again.”

For a second, Aerin thought he saw a glimmer of sadness spark in her eyes. He let her words sink in, let them sting.

“Fine. You don’t have to trust me. But I truly do want to help you and your brother,” Aerin insisted, and this time his voice, although soft and diplomatic, was genuine. He gripped the bars, pleading with her. “Your brother has been good to me, Iliana. And I did not deserve his kindness, just as I do not deserve yours. I am sorry I betrayed you. I never… I never wanted you to get tangled up in everything―”

Iliana scoffed, shaking her head as she began to retreat. “I am not listening to this drivel.”

Aerin’s arm shot out through the bars of his cell, fingers wrapping around her hand. Iliana paused, gaze immediately dropping to their joined hands, although she did not shake him off. Her skin was so _warm._ Aerin had not felt such heat in months. Not even from the sun. 

“Let me help you,” he whispered earnestly. “I cannot undo what I have done―what I did to you. I know that and I wish I could. But I can try to fix this. Let me help you find your brother and bring him home.”

Iliana’s throat bobbed, her gaze traveling from their hands to Aerin’s face. Aerin wished desperately to identify the precise emotion that colored her irises but he understood that he would never get the chance to know her so intimately again. That thought was only further hammered into place as she slipped her hand from his and shook her head.

“You said I don’t have to trust you, Aerin, but I do,” she murmured, backing out of reach. “And I don’t. I can’t do that again. You know I can’t.”

“Iliana…”

She shook her head, refusing to meet his gaze or even bid him goodbye as she turned and walked away. Aerin stood at the edge of his cell, watching as she strode down the corridor, passed the guards, and disappeared. He let his head fall forward, forehead pressing against the cold metal, although he barely felt the chill.

It was then that Aerin realized the worst thing about his sentence was not being locked in a cell to ruminate on his mistakes, but rather it was having to watch other people make their own, and being unable to do a damn thing about it.

* * *

Even at this time of night, Whitetower was still bustling with activity. 

Iliana passed by several taverns as she strode down the cobblestone streets, dodging drunken townspeople and the occasional pair of exhibitionists as she mulled over the last hour in her head. 

After leaving the dungeon, she had been stopped by one of the king’s messengers, who reported that there was no sign of Kade. Since then, she had slipped out of the palace, cried for a few minutes in a dark alley out of anger, frustration, and exhaustion, and then she had begun to formulate the craziest plan she had ever come up with.

So now she was here, briskly walking down the road with a particular tavern in mind. Before long, Iliana reached her destination. As she yanked the door open, the sound of rowdy laughter and the clinking of glasses flooding the street, a sign creaked overhead, reading: _Stone’s Throw._

Iliana drew back the cloak of her hood as she scanned the tavern, eyes searching for a familiar face. She almost smirked in satisfaction when her gaze fell on a head of dark hair in the back corner of the room, surrounded by a crowd of avid listeners.

She made her way towards the mass of people, deftly avoiding bumbling drunkards and servers, who bustled by with plates that were piled high with large slabs of roasted meat that made Iliana’s mouth water. Gods, she hadn’t eaten anything aside from dried rations from her pack since the night before, back in Riverbend. Iliana did not even know the last time she had _slept._ She was practically running on fumes and fear now. But every second she spent resting was another second Kade spent alone.

“And I easily could have escaped alone, mind you,” the storyteller was saying. “But I just couldn’t bring myself to leave the others behind! The scholar, the priestess, and the kit? They didn’t stand a chance without me.”

Iliana rolled her eyes as she pulled up a chair, glancing around at all of the rapt listeners with amusement.

“So when the Duke came out, threatening us with the whole ‘foolish mortals, you cannot escape the Shadow Court’s judgment’ spiel, I used my trusty dagger here―” The man held up a small blade that glinted in the firelight. “―and hurled it― _whoosh_ ―right into one of the Temple’s traps, setting it off and crushing the Duke where he stood!”

Gasps of amazement and even a few cheers went around the circle and Iliana suppressed a smirk. She leaned forward, bracing her forearms on her knees. “That dagger, you say?”

Mal Volari leaned back in his chair, a roguish grin on his lips as he held it up, inspecting its sparkling edge. “This very one.”

“So while you were running for your life from the Shadow Court Duke and his thugs, you had time to go back and retrieve a puny knife?” she questioned over the din.

“Well, uh, I―Hold on. _Puny?”_ Mal’s smile fell and he sat up straight, clearly affronted. “Who said that?”

Iliana grinned and stood, weaving through the crowd. “Looks like someone’s stretching the truth a bit.”

“Iliana! You’re back!” Mal exclaimed, his face lighting up as he shot to his feet, immediately enveloping her in a massive hug. 

“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” Iliana mumbled against his shoulder, holding him tight. “You’re like a sea sponge, soaking up all the ale and attention you can get.”

“Am I getting predictable?” He chuckled and Iliana felt some tension drain from her body. It felt so good to see her friend again, she almost forgot about the new task that weighed heavily upon her. Almost. Mal squeezed her shoulders, turning her to face the crowd and pointing. “The kit, everyone!”

Iliana jabbed her elbow into his ribs as everyone cheered and Mal wheezed out, “Easy, there, kit. Whaddya got, bones of steel?”

“Aw, don’t tell me that Mal the Magnificent has gotten soft, now,” Iliana teased as he steered her away from the crowd and toward a booth in the back, waving over his shoulder to his disbanded audience.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re never going to let that go, are you?” Mal muttered, rolling his eyes. As Iliana slid onto the bench, he asked, “What can I get you? Ale? Wine? Drinks are on me.”

Iliana almost cringed at the idea of filling her empty belly with alcohol. “Honestly, I wouldn’t mind some food.”

Mal looked as if he were about to tease her for killing the fun when he seemed to take note of the shadows beneath her eyes, her worn travel clothes. His expression turned serious and he nodded, quickly grabbing a nearby server and ordering a platter of food for the table. 

“Gods, kit,” he exhaled as he slid into the booth across from her. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look awful. Like you just got captured by the drakna, shoved into one of their freaky cocoons, fell to the bottom of their massive tree, then got eaten by a grobtar, and―”

“Thank you, Mal, I think I get the point. Please do not finish that sentence.” Iliana groaned, rubbing her temples.

“Yeah, sorry,” Mal shrugged, bracing his arms on the wooden table and leaning forward. “Is everything alright? I thought you were visiting elf boy in Undermount?”

“I was, but then I got this weird feeling that something was wrong with Kade. A hunch, or something. I don’t know but that’s not important right now.” Iliana shook her head, splaying her hands out on the table as she tried to collect her thoughts and stay composed. “I came back here to find that Kade has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Mal echoed, face slackening in disbelief. “Like he’s been kidnapped?”

“No, he left voluntarily. I think. I don’t know at this point. Maybe he was coerced but―” Iliana cut herself off. She must _really be_ exhausted if she was rambling like this. “He went searching for the Old Gods, Mal. Which is dangerous. Really dangerous.”

“Alright, so we have to catch up to him and stop him before he gets himself hurt.” Mal nodded resolutely.

“We?” Iliana blinked. “You would go with me?”

Mal’s brows furrowed as if he found her question to be confounding. “Of course. We’re a team.”

“But it’s dangerous,” Iliana reasoned, her hands flipping over on the table so that her palms were open in question. “In fact, I haven’t even told you how dangerous it is.”

Mal shrugged. “Every adventure is. Things around here are getting a little boring, anyways. So whatever we’re doing, I’m in.” Mal’s brows lowered. “What exactly _are_ we doing? How do we get started?”

Iliana stared blankly at him, surprised by his willingness to join her, especially considering how much she had to bribe him before. Despite everything, she was touched. Iliana quickly shook herself out of her thoughts, forcing herself to stay focused on the task at hand. 

“Right,” she said slowly, her fingers working anxiously. Iliana realized with a start that she was twisting Aerin’s signet ring on her thumb. She wondered if the prince had noticed it in the dungeon, or perhaps her Orb of Light had concealed it. Iliana chewed her lip, wondering how to phrase this without sounding as if she had fallen off the wagon. She dropped her voice, speaking just loud enough for Mal to hear her across the table. “First things first. I need you to help me break someone out of the palace dungeons.”

Mal’s mouth fell open. “ _What?”_

Before Iliana could reply, a large platter of potatoes, roasted meat, and vegetables was set on the table before them. Iliana nearly fainted because of how good it all looked. She snatched the fork the server had set and immediately began to shove food into her mouth with feral abandon.

“I need to get someone out of the palace dungeons,” Iliana repeated around a mouth full of potatoes once their server had walked out of earshot. “They have information that could be useful in finding Kade. They know a lot about Morella and the lands beyond.”

Mal blinked, shaking his head, clearly still incredulous as he asked, “Who?”

Iliana swallowed her food. Right. Now for the even crazier part. “Prince Aerin.”

 _“Have you gone absolutely mad?”_ Mal nearly shouted, drawing the attention of a few nearby patrons. Iliana reached across the table and punched his arm.

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, shooting him a glare. “Do you want everyone here to know our business? I know how it sounds, Mal, and trust me, I don’t like it either. But Aerin knows more than any of us about the realm and the Old Gods. We don’t have time to spend days researching. Plus, he’s aggravatingly smart. Kade left behind directions,” Iliana explained, pulling out her brother’s letter and unfolding it. She set it on the table with the backside facing up. “Aerin figured out the first two lines in only a handful of seconds. That kind of knowledge and thinking is invaluable. And we’re going to need every bit of help we can get to find Kade.”

“Did you forget about the fact that that bastard betrayed us?” Mal demanded, lip curled with distaste, although at least he kept his voice low this time. “He kidnapped Nia and nearly got all of us killed!”

“I. Know.” Iliana ground out, her jaw tight. “If I didn’t think we needed his help, I wouldn’t even consider it. But we do. And besides, he doesn’t have any power left. We can easily take Aerin if he even tries to do something stupid.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to kick his ass,” Mal muttered and Iliana smirked. He let out a long-suffering sigh. “If we get him, I am going to be tempted to punch his princely little face for every single second I have to look at it.”

“I know, but try to refrain from doing that unless he does something that merits it, alright?” Iliana asked. She dropped her fork on her plate, then leaned forward, settling her hand over Mal’s. “So are you still on board?”

Mal sighed, sitting back in his chair as he ran his free hand through his hair. He folded his arms across his chest, gaze roaming around the room. At last, he met Iliana’s stare and dipped his chin. “Yeah, I’m still on board. We gotta do what we gotta do to save your brother. _Again.”_

Iliana grinned. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah, turn that thing down, will you?” he asked, waving at her smile. “You’re going to blind me like that.” He sighed. “So when do we move?”

“As soon as possible,” Iliana shrugged, spearing a cut of meat on her fork. “Tonight. As soon as we plan this out and I finish eating.”

Mal’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his head. “ _Tonight?”_

“The longer we wait, the further away Kade gets, and the further he gets the more danger he’s in,” Iliana reasoned. “We don’t need to worry about getting in. You and I are the King’s Champions. No one will question us.”

“Yeah? And what about getting out?” Mal questioned. “The entirety of the Royal Guard is going to be on our tails when we break out their highest-profile prisoner.”

“There’s no doubt about it. We’re probably going to have to knock out our fair share of guards.” Iliana pursed her lips, spearing a cut of roasted meat on the tines of her fork. “But, it’s a good thing we’re masters of stealth.” She looked up at Mal, waving her knife around. “You’re a Whitetower native, right? _The Whitetower Reaper,_ as you said _._ You must know your way around. _All_ the ways around.”

She watched as understanding dawned on his face. Mal shrugged, leaning back and smugly draping his arm over the back of his bench. “You could say that.”

“There’s a couple of exits out of the palace dungeons,” Iliana said slowly, recalling what she had seen earlier that night. “Would you happen to know if there are any _special_ passageways near those exits?”

Mal slid his tongue over his teeth, brows knitting in thought. After a few moments, he finally nodded. “As a matter of fact, I do. You got a piece of parchment and something to write with?”

Iliana grabbed her satchel and joined Mal on the other side of the booth, pulling out some blank pages and a stick of charcoal she utilized to write letters while on the road. She quickly sketched a layout of the dungeons from memory. When Mal took the piece of charcoal and filled in some of the blanks, Iliana shot him a suspicious glare.

“What?” he shrugged innocently. “You don’t wind up in the Thieves Guild without spending a little time in the palace dungeons.”

“I would imagine a good thief never even gets caught,” Iliana rolled her eyes, angling her body to shield their work from any wandering eyes. 

“Ah, but an even better thief is one that can get caught and know how to escape,” Mal countered, tapping her nose with the stick of charcoal and leaving a dark smudge. “You still have a lot to learn, kit.”

Iliana batted her his hand away, wrinkling her nose as she wiped it with the corner of her cloak. “Focus, will you? We should do this before daybreak. I don’t want to wait for tomorrow night for the cover of darkness.”

Mal rolled his eyes and was about to continue marking all of the secret or underground passageways that he knew of when he paused, giving Iliana a once over. “Are you sure we shouldn’t wait? When was the last time you slept, Iliana?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Mal straightened, brows flattening. “Yes, it does. Aside from the fact that sleep is good for your health, if you’re not at your peak, you put us both at risk.”

“Mal, I’m fine,” Iliana insisted with a huff. “I’ll rest after we get Aerin. I promise. You can knock me out yourself if I don’t. But the sooner we act, the better.”

“There’s no convincing you to wait, is there?” Mal grumbled, working his jaw as he studied her.

“No,” Iliana asserted, resolute.

“Fine,” he muttered, turning back to the paper. He marked a few passageways, noting what they were― _underground passage, sewage tunnel_ ―and where they ended up in the city. “We should pick one that leads somewhere safe. Wherever it is that we’re going to hunker down while the city guards are sniffing around.”

Iliana sucked on her incisor as she considered this. “Do you have any places in mind?”

Mal ran his hand through his hair, deep in thought. “Your place and mine are probably out. I’m not sure which of the Guild’s safehouses are still undiscovered…” He hummed to himself, scanning their sketch. He placed his finger on one of the passages he had marked and drew an imaginary line that crossed off the page. He made a thoughtful noise, tapping the table as he murmured to himself, “That would leave us only a few blocks away… and if we’re fast and stealthy enough, the city guard might not be on the lookout for us yet.”

“What are you thinking?” Iliana asked, leaning in.

Mal glanced over at her, a mischievous twinkle in his dark eyes. “What do you say we pay our favorite priestess a visit?”

* * *

Aerin laid back on his cot with one hand tucked behind his head and the other idly tossing a stone up in the air, catching it, and tossing it up once more. Over the last few hours, he had lapsed into a sort of rhythm―throw, catch, throw, catch―the sound of the rock smacking against his palm echoing throughout his empty cell. 

After Iliana had left, Aerin had tried to go back to sleep, but his mind simply would not rest. He kept cycling through their conversation over and over again, wondering if there was anything else he could have said to convince her to either stay in Whitetower or bring him along. He knew it was pointless, but it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Without Kade or his books, all Aerin was left with were his thoughts.

Throw, catch. Throw, catch. Throw, catch.

Aerin found himself wondering about the lands beyond Morella―specifically the mountain kingdom of the Vishanti. He had visited the woolly mountain men once, when he was much younger, on a diplomatic mission. From his recollection, the kingdom was cold and the people were as tough as they came, very much like the solid stone of the mountains they had carved their homes from. Isolated in the frosty peaks, the Vishanti were wary of newcomers.

He tried and failed to imagine Iliana in the frozen kingdom. It was too barren, too lifeless for her. There were no magical lakes and colorful flowers in the harsh landscape. Despite everything that had happened afterward, all of the betrayal, Aerin’s memory of her permanently lived in that lively bit of sanctuary that thrived at the heart of the Deadwood.

Aerin wondered if she had already left Whitetower and how far she had gone. He supposed that depended on how she was traveling. On foot? Horseback? Or perhaps even by wagon? But then he thought of her windswept hair and realized she probably left the way she had came―on the back of a drake. And if that was the case, then she was already far, far away from Whitetower. From him. 

_And good riddance,_ his conscience sneered bitterly, although the words felt hollow.

Aerin huffed.

He had spent the last several months forcing the Riverbend girl out of his head, and just when he thought he might have banished her for good, she came wandering back into his life, back into his mind. And now, he could not seem to get her out.

“Evening, good sirs,” said a sultry voice, smooth and soft as velvet.

Great _._ Now he was hearing her voice.

“Lady Iliana! We weren’t expecting you to come back so soon.”

Aerin faltered, the stone thumping against his chest as it missed his palm. He sat up straight, lips parting. That voice was not in his head. It was _real._

“Are you here to speak to the prince?”

“Not this time, milord,” Iliana replied in a dulcet tone, her voice so low and husky it sent a shiver down Aerin’s spine. “You see, I was in a tavern not too long ago―the Stone’s Throw, do you know it? A fine establishment. 

“I―yes. Very fine indeed.”

“Mm, well. I was sitting in a booth, drinking all by my lonesome because there was simply no one there who caught my eye,” Iliana continued and Aerin stood, silently creeping to the edge of his cell. He could see her silhouette in the flickering firelight. She had changed out of her traveling clothes and was now cloaked in a fine cape of midnight black. Two guards stood before her, backs ramrod straight.

“And I thought to myself, ‘Iliana, there was a rather fine pair of knights back in the palace who looked like they could be good for a bit of fun,’” she continued, her lips curving into a coy smile. “So I suppose my question is: what time do you gentlemen get off?”

Aerin did not hear the guards’ response, for his attention was suddenly captured by another sound, like stone grinding against stone. It came from the other direction, opposite from where Iliana stood. Judging by the way her head tilted ever so slightly, angling her delicately arched ear in his direction, Aerin knew she heard it too.

“Actually,” she said, her voice laced through with something lethal, and Aerin swore her could have _heard_ her smirk. “I changed my mind. I _am_ here for the prince.”

Iliana struck, spinning like a whirlwind as she threw her elbow back and slammed it into the helmet of one guard, knocking him out instantly. As she turned to face the other, she reached a hand back, hooking her fingers in the edge of the first guard’s armor to slow his fall, letting him down gently, soundlessly. The other she dealt with just as swiftly, shoving him against the wall and using her palm to cover his mouth to stifle his cry as she jabbed the side of his neck. Instantly, he slackened, body sagging to the ground. Aerin watched as Iliana unhooked a single key from the guard’s belt and strode down the hallway toward his cell, toward _him._

“Iliana,” Aerin breathed, gripping the bars as she came ever closer.

For a moment, they simply stood there, sizing each other up. Aerin’s heart was pounding so hard, he feared that she could hear it, that it would give every secret of his away.

“We’re going to save my brother,” she declared at last, eyes boring into his as she fit the key into the lock of his cell door. The door swung open and she stepped back, scanning him from head to toe. “Do _not_ make me regret this.”


	5. The Long Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mission: breakout.

The door swung open and Aerin stepped out of his cell.

He gazed down at his hands, which were free of any restraints. He had only ever been allowed to leave his cell to use the lavatory, and when he did, he was always shackled and then escorted by several guards. But now… He was free. It was not until then that he realized how much he had missed this feeling.

“Aerin…?” Iliana said, her voice suddenly soft as her eyes searched his face. For a second, he thought he saw a sort of tenderness in her emerald gaze. But when he blinked, it was gone. A trick of the low light.

“ _ Kit! Time’s ticking!” _

Was that voice coming from… underground?

Iliana’s face hardened as she withdrew a bundle of dark fabric from beneath her cloak and shoved it at his chest. “Put that on and follow me.”

Aerin did as he was told, unfurling material as she led him down the corridor. She had given him a cloak like hers with a hood to conceal his face. He quickly draped it over his shoulders and clasped it around his neck, holding it tight around him to conserve warmth. They were just about to round a corner when Iliana flung her arm out, bracing it against Aerin’s chest and bringing him to a halt.

_ “I could have sworn I heard something over here.” _

_ “Maybe it was a rat?” _

_ “I don’t think so.” _

Together, they peered around the corner, taking note of two heavily armed guards that were striding in their direction. But what caught Aerin’s attention was a large grate in the middle of the hallway. Its dark metal glinted faintly, as if lit from below. He had a sinking feeling that that was their way out, and the guards were about to discover it.

“Give me a weapon,” Aerin whispered, his breath ghosting over Iliana’s arched ear.

“Why, so you can stab me the moment I turn my back?” she snapped and Aerin bristled. “No.”

“So I can help you take them out,” he retorted, rolling his eyes. “I wouldn’t―”

“No.”

“Iliana―”

“I said, _no_ ,” she hissed and Aerin glowered at her. She squeezed his shoulder, holding him back. “Just stay here. I’ll take care of them.” 

Before he could protest, she unsheathed a dagger at her side and stepped around the corner, flinging it with deadly precision. The hilt of her blade slammed into the side of one guard’s helmet, dropping them almost instantly. 

“Hey!” The other guard drew their broadsword, preparing to cleave Iliana in two when she spun beneath their arms and grabbed their wrist, slamming it against the wall. The guard’s gauntleted fingers unfurled, sending the blade skittering across the ground, landing right before Aerin’s feet.

Iliana still did not draw any of her weapons. Instead, she jabbed with her index, middle, and ring fingers, aiming for the gap in the guard’s armor that exposed their neck, just as she had done before. But this soldier was faster and larger than the others. They caught her hand, yanking her off balance and into a brutal chokehold.

“Argh!” Iliana grunted, her voice a hoarse rasp. Her fingers scrabbled at the guard’s gauntleted arm for a few moments before she brought her knee up and then slammed her foot down on their instep. They yelped, dropping their arms and releasing Iliana. Iliana gulped down a sharp breath and turned to strike, but Aerin beat her to it. He lunged forward, snatching the sword from the ground and slamming the pommel into the side of the guard’s helmet. They fell with a loud thud, unconscious. 

Iliana shot him a bewildered look, her chest heaving. A few dark marks had already begun to bloom on the sides of her throat from where the guard had held her. For a moment, he thought about what it would feel like to brush his fingers along them, but refrained. He reckoned she might give him a matching set for even trying. “Others will have heard that.”

“They would have heard it long before I stepped in,” Aerin replied and Iliana frowned. He was about to set the sword aside but she stopped him with a light touch on his wrist. He sent her a questioning look.

“Maybe you should hold onto that,” she said, meeting his stare. “Just in case.”

Aerin tightened his fingers around the hilt, then nodded. Iliana dipped her chin in response, then turned, striding for the metal grate Aerin had noticed before.

“Help me with this,” she ordered as she kneeled down. Aerin crouched beside her, hooking his fingers into the holes and helping her heave the heavy plate aside. A horrible stench wafted up and Iliana recoiled, coughing into her elbow.

“There you are. You two certainly made a lot of noise.”

Mal Volari gazed up at Aerin from the darkness far below, face illuminated by a lantern, forearm held over his nose.

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t want to hear it,” Iliana muttered with a grimace, holding the edges of her cloak to her face as she glanced toward Aerin. “Hold your breath, princeling,” she ordered, swinging her feet over the edge as Mal stepped out of view. “This is our way out.”

Aerin shuddered, repulsed. “Through the  _ sewers?” _

“You got a better idea?” Iliana cut him a glare and before he could respond, she disappeared into the darkness below. He heard a soft thud as she gracefully landed. He supposed he should count his blessings and thank the gods that there was solid ground, not just a river of waste. Aerin covered his mouth and nose, hesitantly peering into the shadows where the others waited.

“Hurry!” Iliana hissed, beckoning with her hand. “Or we will leave you behind!”

Aerin held his breath, then leapt through the hole.

He stumbled as he landed, lances of pain shooting through his ankles with the impact. But then two pairs of hands were there to steady him, stopping him from tumbling into the sewage that flowed only a few steps to their right. Mal was the first to step back, his hands falling to his sides as if simply touching Aerin had burned his skin. Aerin met Iliana’s gaze as she slowly unfurled her fingers from his cotton shirt and backed away.

She broke his stare first as she glanced up, eyes narrowing. “Damn it! The grate!”

Mal craned his neck, following her line of sight and scowled. “It’s too high. We have to leave it.”

Iliana pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly displeased. She let out a sharp breath through her nose, then nodded. “Then we better get going.”

“Going where?” Aerin asked although no one answered. Iliana’s hand gripped his sleeve and tugged him along as Mal led the way deeper into the sewage tunnel. Before long, they came to a narrow, open passageway hidden in the side of the tunnel and squeezed through. 

They had to shuffle sideways for several paces before they emerged into another, wider tunnel. Mal reached out, sticking his arm into a discreet hole in the wall. He jerked his elbow back, evidently triggering some sort of mechanism. Aerin heard that grinding sound from before and glanced back just in time to see a wall of stone slide into place, sealing off the entrance to the passageway they had just entered through.

Aerin gaped at the hidden door, then the tunnel they now stood in. He had no idea anything like this existed, right beneath his home. Were there more passageways like this, hidden beneath the palace? Beneath all of Whitetower?

“Escape now, gawk later,” Mal urged, grabbing Aerin’s shoulder and shoving him forward. Aerin shook himself out of his bewilderment and hurried forward, noting that Iliana was already far ahead, guided by her elven senses alone.

Aerin still could quite not believe this. He was free. Every step he took led him further from the palace, further from his freezing little cell. Aerin was still cold, but he barely felt it. His heart was pounding, racing with the thrill of being free, the fear of being caught, the joy of seeing  _ her― _

Aerin’s steps faltered and he would have tripped over his own feet had Mal not grabbed the back of his cloak and hefted him upright. “What’s the matter with you?” Mal snarled. “They don’t teach you how to run straight in that fancy castle of yours?”

Aerin scowled, shirking off Mal’s hand and continuing forward, forcing his mind to stay focused on the task at hand. He picked up the pace, keeping close behind Iliana’s long strides.

“Where are we going?” Aerin asked, gazing around as if he could find some sort of indicator that would tell him where exactly in Whitetower they were, but there were none. He was disoriented, all turned about. He did not even have an inkling as to what direction they were heading. 

“Shh!” Mal hissed.

“I just want to―”

_ “Shh!” _

“Mal, there’s no one here,” Iliana chided, shaking her head.

“I know,” the rogue replied sourly. “I just don’t want to hear him talk.”

Aerin bristled, resisting the urge to glare back at him. Instead, he addressed Iliana. Out of his two companions, she had the better manners. “Where are we going, Iliana?”

She glanced back, eyes almost luminous in the light of Mal’s lantern. “Somewhere safe.”

How expectedly vague.

“And where might that be?”

“Shh!” Mal hushed again, and this time, neither Aerin nor Iliana protested. 

They continued on in silence as they wound through the labyrinthine tunnels, sometimes branching off into adjacent passageways. It seemed to be that there was an entire underground network down here, which left Aerin absolutely awestruck. This was his city, his home, and he had no idea any of this even existed…

“What are you thinking about?”

Aerin tore his gaze away from the smooth stone walls of the tunnel to find Iliana walking beside him. Mal had taken up the lead, the lantern held out before him to illuminate the way.

“I never knew any of this was here,” Aerin admitted, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve spent most of my life in Whitetower, have poured over so many maps of the city, and I never once saw anything about underground tunnels.”

“Yeah, well. I think that’s intentional,” Iliana shrugged, glancing around, her gaze thoughtful.

Aerin frowned. “What do you mean?”

She arched a brow at him, as if the answer was obvious. “These tunnels were meant to be a secret, Aerin. Created by people like us  _ for _ people like us.”

“People like us?” Aerin echoed, confused. What could they possibly have in common?

“Criminals, princeling,” Mal answered from up ahead. “Thieves. The  _ rabble, _ as you nobles say.”

Aerin furrowed his brows. Okay, Mal he understood. The man was a well known thief. And Aerin was… he winced. He was a murderer. And a traitor to the crown. 

“But  _ you’re  _ not a criminal,” he noted, carefully studying Iliana’s face. He noticed with no small amount of dissatisfaction that the marks on her neck had darkened to a midnight blue. He only wished that he had stepped in sooner.

“Aren’t I?” she asked, shrugging nonchalantly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her braid had come undone, long tangled locks spilling down her back and over her shoulders like dark waves. “I just broke the prince out of prison. I’d say that makes me a criminal.”

Aerin pursed his lips. He hadn’t even thought about that. Surely the entire city watch would be on the lookout for Iliana now once the guards regained consciousness and revealed that she had been the one to help him escape. Aerin shook his head, puzzled. “What made you change your mind? When you left earlier, you were fairly adamant that you were not going to take me with you.”

Iliana’s gaze flattened. “I didn’t change my mind. The moment you figured out the first two lines of Kade’s directions, I knew that I was going to bring you along. Although I couldn’t very well tell you that. The guards were most certainly listening in.” Aerin opened his mouth but Iliana held up a stern hand, cutting him off. “But I still meant what I said earlier. I don’t trust you, Aerin.  _ This _ ―” she waved her fingers between them.”―doesn’t change anything. We’re going to save my brother, and then I’m taking you back to the king. If he doesn’t have my head, first.”

Aerin swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. That was fair. “Of course.”

Another silence fell between them, and this time, Aerin was glad of it. As they continued trekking through the tunnels, Aerin wondered how far away they were from the palace now. He had no idea how much time had passed and all of the tunnels looked the same. For a moment, he even considered that perhaps Mal was leading them in circles to confound him, but realized that there would be no point in doing so. Aerin was already lost enough as it was and he had no plans of returning to the dungeons.

After a while, the floor began to slope upwards, taking them closer to the surface. Before long, Mal drew them to a halt beneath a grate in the ceiling. A gentle breeze streamed through the small slats in the metal plate, carrying with it the scent of hyacinths and woodsmoke. Through the gaps, Aerin could just barely make out the night sky and thousands of twinkling stars.

“Here we are,” Mal said, extinguishing the lantern and setting it aside. He waved Iliana over. “You’re up, kit.”

Mal crouched down, lacing his fingers together and forming a foothold for her. He boosted Iliana up, giving her the height she needed to shove the grate aside and heave herself onto the street above. A few moments later, she popped her head over the side, offering her hand. Mal ignored it, backing up a few paces, then bounding forward. He leapt, fingers snagging the edge to pull himself up.

“Show off,” Iliana teased, clapping his back as he got the rest of his body over the edge. She turned back to Aerin, extending her hand once more. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to do that.”

_ Thank the gods for that. _ He reached up, gripping Iliana’s forearm as her slender fingers wrapped around his, and jumped, tossing his stolen sword up before grabbing the edge with his other hand. He felt her free hand tangle in the back of his shirt and yank, tugging him the rest of the way over the edge.

The moment he was out of the hole and safely on the street, she released him, dragging the metal plate back into place as she muttered, “Not making that mistake again.”

“Thank you,” Aerin mumbled, grabbing his sword and getting to his feet. Iliana wordlessly nodded, straightening out her clothes and pulling up her hood.

“Come on,” Mal said quietly, starting off down the street. “We’re almost there.”

As they followed Mal’s lead, Aerin gazed around, noting that they were in a more residential area, not too far from the Temple District. The lots here weren’t massive, but they were more spaced out and allowed for the presence of small gardens. They passed several babbling fountains, some of which were decorated with ivy or one of the revered Saints of Light. They turned down an alley that was bordered by stacks of crates and all sorts of broken things. This was apparently where the local residents left their discarded belongings.

Admittedly, Aerin had not spent much time in the nicer, more residential areas of Whitetower. When he wasn’t cooped up at the palace or on ridiculous hunting trips with Baldur, Aerin sometimes took detours into the Market District on his way to the Temple of Light in search of puzzles and other odd trinkets. Once, he had even wandered through the Nooks and Crannies―in disguise of course―to see how the less fortunate of his people had fared. 

He could still remember the decrepit buildings, the gaunt faces of beggars, and the barefoot children that darted around his legs, dressed in tattered rags. That very evening, he had gone to his brother and pleaded with him to support a proposition to dedicate relief funds to the impoverished people of Whitetower. But Baldur had only laughed in his face and walked away, which somehow stung more than most blows he had dealt.

“How did they already find out?” Mal suddenly hissed, throwing out his arm to stop them from going any further and ushering them back into the shadows. Aerin was engrossed in his thoughts, he had not even noticed the unit of guards that marched down the street they had been about to cross. “They’re never in this area. And I’ve never seen so many guards mobilized at once. They must know about the prince.”

“The grate,” Iliana muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “They know we escaped through the sewers. I bet there’s more guards patrolling the outer districts than the immediate vicinity of the palace.”

“Well,” Mal stated, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. “At least we’re almost there.” He frowned, sighing heavily through his nose. As soon as the guards had passed, he began to creep forward, his feet near-silent. “Just keep low and stay quiet―”

A loud crash cut Mal off as Aerin stumbled over one of the broken crates that littered the alleyway, sending an entire pile of discarded belongings tumbling to the ground.

Iliana whirled on him, her eyes wide and Aerin winced as footsteps pounded in their direction.

“Oh, seven hells,” Mal groaned, his face livid as he grabbed the back of Aerin’s cloak and began to haul him in the opposite direction. Several guards appeared at the mouth of the alley, all of them heavily armed.

“You there! Stop!”

“Run!”

Aerin felt Iliana’s hand on his back as Mal took off, dragging Aerin with him. They sprinted back the way they came, boots slapping against the slippery cobblestone. Mal abruptly turned down a narrow side street, nearly yanking Aerin off his feet. But then Iliana was there, gripping his elbow to hold him upright. They wove through the city blocks, turning seemingly at random to lose the guards that were hot on their tails, but every time they seemed to shake one off, another took its place.

“We’re going to have to split up,” Iliana stated after they darted around several buildings. They had gained some distance, but the sound of clinking armor and heavy boots was not far off. As they paused at the center of another intersection, Aerin felt Iliana’s hand fall away from his arm. “Mal. You take Aerin and get to Nia’s. I’ll meet you there after I draw them off.”

Aerin felt his heart jump into his throat. He turned in time to see Iliana draw the Blade of Sol and back away. Aerin’s fingers tightened around his own stolen blade. If she was going to fight, he should at least try to help her. He stepped towards her. “Wait―”

“Kit―” 

“Go!” she demanded. “I’ll lead them away!”

“Argh!” Mal growled as Iliana sprinted off in the opposite direction, using her sword to knock over potted plants and crates, making as much noise as possible to lure the guards to her instead of them. Mal’s hand fisted in the front of Aerin’s shirt and yanked, urging him forward. “Come on, princeling!”

Aerin gaped at him, his gaze whipping back and forth as his boots slid on the stone. “Wait! What about―”

“She’ll be fine! She can hold her own,” Mal snapped, voice laced with venom as he tugged harder. Eventually, Aerin gave in, moving his feet to keep up with the other man. “She’s made her decision. Now we just have to make sure all of the trouble she’s going through is worthwhile.”

As they rounded another corner, Aerin glanced back just in time to see well over a dozen guards cross into the intersection where they had parted ways. Something inside him tensed as the guards turned, not in their direction, but Iliana’s.

“She’s going to be fine,” Mal insisted, but Aerin wasn’t sure who Mal was trying to convince more as the sound of a fight broke out behind them.

Aerin had no idea how long they had been running before they finally came to a quaint little cottage that was surrounded by a lush, fruitful garden. Mal slowed their pace to a walk, which Aerin was immensely grateful for. 

He panted, wiping sweat from his brow, and vaguely wondered why he felt so exhausted. While it was true that he had not exerted himself so thoroughly ever since he had been locked away in that cell, he still had a fairly healthy diet and had kept up good fitness for most of his life. He held the back of his hand to his forehead, then his cheek, expecting it to feel hot. But it was barely warm at best. It seemed that even after all of this running, the ice in his bones would not melt away.

“Mind your step,” Mal advised as he pushed open the wooden gate that bordered the front yard of the cottage. “The priestess doesn’t like it when you step on her flowers. You’d think they were babes, the way she fawns over them.”

Aerin furrowed his brows, finally realizing whose home they were about to inhabit. He held his sword aloft and stepped carefully through Nia’s garden, careful not to stomp on or slice through any of the flowers that bloomed there. Mal rapped on the priestess’ front door, echoing a distinct rhythm that Aerin could not place. Before he even finished knocking, the door swung open.

“Mal!” Nia exclaimed softly, her honey brown eyes widening with relief. “I was starting to worry something had gone wrong.” She quickly stepped aside to let them in. Her expression darkened some when her gaze fell on Aerin. She stepped back, giving him a wide berth as he entered her home. “And… the prince.” Her fine brows drew together, concern etched into her lovely features. “Where’s Iliana?”

Mal only let out a low hiss, starting to angrily pace around the priestess’ living room, lips twisted into a bitter scowl. 

“Mal?” Nia asked softly and when he did not respond, she turned to Aerin, although a little reluctantly. “Aerin?”

“She…” Aerin pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated with Iliana for just  _ leaving _ like that―without giving them a chance to protest―and frustrated with himself for putting them all in that position in the first place. “She went to draw off the city guard while we made it here.”

“I… I’m sure she’ll be okay… Iliana always is.” Nia pursed her lips, her brow creased with worry. “I saw the guards first pass by a short while ago. I had thought for certain that they were going to stop here, but they continued on. I don’t think they know where I live, or that you planned to come here. I overheard from my neighbors that they are doing a broad, city-wide sweep. You should be safe here.”

“We’ll probably have to hunker down here for a few days. At least until the worst of this blows over and we can get out of town,” Mal sighed, running his hands through his hair as he strode up to the window, brushing a gauzy curtain aside. “Sorry about that, Nia.”

“Oh, that’s alright.” She shrugged, lacing her fingers together as she gazed around her quaint abode. “It will be a tight fit, but we’ll make it work.”

Her home was cozy and stylishly furnished. There was no shortage of frilly pillows and lace in the living room. Across from the living room sat a small kitchen with a wood-burning stove, a shelf of spices and vegetables, a fireplace, and a round wooden table. Branching off of the main area was a single hallway with two closed doors that Aerin assumed led to Nia’s bedroom and the lavatory. A ladder in the corner of the living room sat beneath a small opening in the ceiling that presumably led to the attic.

“Besides,” Nia continued, settling on one of her plush loveseats as she anxiously twiddled her thumbs. “That gives me some time to gather supplies for our journey.”

Aerin’s lips parted in surprise as Mal turned away from the window, brows raised. “You’re coming?”

Nia almost looked affronted. “Of course I am! As if I would let you three go off alone! Don’t you know how dangerous it is outside of Morella?”

_ Finally,  _ someone  _ understands the stakes, _ Aerin thought dryly as he set his sword against the wall and stood by the window, gazing out at the street beyond.

“So you want to go  _ with _ us?” Mal questioned, incredulous. “Into danger?”

“You’re going to need all of the help you can get,” Nia reasoned, her voice as resolute and determined as Aerin had ever heard it. She had apparently come a long way from being the young acolyte he met in the Deadwood all those months ago.

Mal sighed heavily. “Fine. I suppose you’re bringing the catbat, too?”

“ _ Excuse _ me,” said a third voice, its owner clearly offended. “I am a _ nesper.  _ You would think after all this time, you might remember that.”

“Speak of the devil,” Mal muttered and Aerin glanced back to see Threep swoop in from the attic, perching on Nia’s shoulder. 

The nesper’s mismatched eyes seemed to narrow at Mal, then continued to roam around the room. When his gaze fell on Aerin, Threep hissed, his hackles rising as he bared his teeth.  _ “You!” _

“What is it, Threep?” Mal asked, stiffening. He scowled, glancing between Aerin and the nesper. “Do you sense darkness? I  _ knew  _ it. He’s still corrupted!”

“No,” Threep negated, recoiling. “He smells of ash―remnants of the Court. But he’s not corrupted.” He sniffed, tail whipping behind him. “I just do not like him.”

“Yeah, you and me both,” Mal sighed, collapsing back on to the couch.

“Mal…” Nia chided, although Aerin knew she felt the same.

Aerin’s jaw clenched, but he did not deign to reply. Instead he turned back to the window, stoically keeping a watch out for Iliana.

“So, it’s you, me, the nesper, Iliana, and the princeling,” Mal declared, counting off his fingers. “Off to rescue the bard, once again.”

“Actually…” Nia said slowly, her tone a bit bashful. “I also sent letters to Tyril and Imtura. I told them about what’s happening and asked them if they would like to come along. I haven’t heard back yet. Obviously. But I figured it would be best to send them now in case the Royal Guard starts intercepting any carrier pigeons.”

“Immy and elf boy are coming too?” Mal sounded exasperated, although Aerin noted that he did not seem to be averse to the idea. “I guess it really is like the good old days. Plus him.” 

Aerin knew without having to turn that Mal was talking about him. 

“So what are we supposed to be doing?” Aerin asked after an insufferably long amount of time passed. “Should one of us go out there and search for Iliana?”

“And risk undoing everything she’s out there fighting for by getting ourselves caught?” Mal countered although there was no malice. Only mutual frustration. “No. As much as I hate it, the best thing for everyone is to wait here.”

“She’ll be okay, Aerin,” Nia said gently and Aerin stiffened at the way she spoke―what the priestess’ comforting tone seemed to insinuate: he was worrying because he  _ cared.  _ And although her accusation was not explicitly voiced, Aerin felt the urge to deny it rise in him. 

And because of that vehement impulse, he realized that if he did deny such feelings of attachment, he would be lying.

But really, hadn’t he been lying to himself this entire time? In all those months he spent in that cell, convincing himself that he forgot all about the Riverbend girl from the Deadwood, he had been lying. Why else would he have been so afraid when she revealed her plan to go after Kade? So full of hope when she had returned for him?

_ Actually, I changed my mind. I  _ am  _ here for the prince. _

Why else would he be hovering at this window, anxiously staring out at the street beyond, waiting for her arrival with his heart in his throat?

Aerin did not want to unpack those questions right now. He did not know how to care for someone like that. He did not think that he even wanted to. All that Aerin knew how to care about was his kingdom and his people, and that was difficult enough. The gods knew well enough how he had failed and lost his way.

Instead, Aerin focused on the fact that Iliana was out there, risking her life for theirs. That was simple. He could care about that without worrying about what it meant. Because he owed her that much. 

So Aerin rubbed at his bleary eyes, holding his exhaustion at bay as he perched on the arm of Nia’s love chair before the window, and began his vigil.

* * *

It was almost dawn by the time Iliana finally shook the city guard off her tail. It had taken running through three districts, engaging in several skirmishes, and even hiding in a well to lose them, but at long last, Iliana walked through the streets of Whitetower without a single soldier in pursuit.

Iliana could not remember the last time she felt so worn out. Her muscles screamed, barely holding up for the trek back to Nia’s. She shuffled down the cobblestone roads of the Temple District, her entire body burning like cleansing fire. She was pretty sure she was bleeding from somewhere, but with the way everything ached, she could not be certain. For a moment, Iliana had contemplated using the Light to heal any injuries, but she did not trust herself to draw upon her magic without passing out in the process.

Iliana could not believe a couple of ninnies in suits had exhausted her like this. Admittedly, it was much harder to fight someone when she was more focused on disabling them rather than truly harming them―because in the end, the Whitetower soldiers were just doing their jobs―but still. Iliana knew she was more skilled than most of those guards put together, and what she lacked in skill, she made up for desperation. On a good day, she could take them all on without a problem.

But, this was not a good day.

Iliana was willing to admit that perhaps this was what Mal had warned her about when he insisted she get some rest first. But no matter. The job was done. Aerin and Mal were safely hiding away at Nia’s, or at least she hoped they were. If they weren’t… well, she certainly did a whole lot of fighting for nothing.

When Nia’s cottage finally came into view, the windows glowing with a warm inner light, Iliana sighed in relief, another wave of strength rolling through her for the final push home. Her tongue felt like sandpaper as she swiped it over her split lip. She shoved Nia’s gate open, swearing when she saw that she had left bloody fingerprints, which stood out in stark contrast against the white paint. She was in the process of trying to wipe away the smudges when the front door burst open, emitting a single figure.

“Iliana! Gods, you’re hurt!”

Iliana straightened, the ground swaying beneath her feet as she offered up a feeble smile. “Hello, princeling.”

Then she teetered forward, the remaining dregs of strength in her legs finally giving out. The last thing she remembered before succumbing to the sweet and blissful dark was a blur of hazel and the feel of strong arms, steady beneath her. Then, there was nothing.


	6. Forged Beneath the Hammer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iliana is reminded of a new threat on the horizon and the gang plans their escape from Whitetower.

_Iliana walked through the streets of Whitetower, a wicker basket full of fruits hanging off her forearm. It was a nice day, sunny with a gentle breeze. She plucked a cloudberry from her cache and popped it into her mouth, sighing contentedly as the tart juice exploded across her tongue. Small children darted around her legs, laughing gleefully as she crossed into the Whitetower Trade Bazaar, which was crammed with stalls and vendors that sold all sorts of wares._

_She marveled at a booth piled high with soft fabrics of every color_ ― _not just simple reds and blues, but perfect imitations of nature: seafoam green, sunset orange, daffodil yellow. Iliana reached out, threading the silken cloth between her fingers as she passed. She wished she had a talent for something artistic such as designing clothes so she could find a reason to purchase these beautiful materials, but her hands were far too rough and calloused to touch such pretty things._

_Before long, Iliana emerged out of the market and into the town square, which was far less cramped and hectic than the Bazaar._

_Iliana sat down on the edge of the fountain at the center of the square and closed her eyes. She tilted her head back, letting the sunlight pleasantly warm her face. A faint mist fanned across her cheeks, water from the fountain sweeping through the air, carried by a benign wind. She inhaled deeply, smelling the sweet aroma of roasted nuts and candied fruits as she listened to the sounds of the inquisitive turtle doves that roamed around her feet._

_She felt… at peace. She could not remember the last time she had done so, at least not this completely. Iliana quieted her thoughts, hoping to catch the tune of the local songbirds over the din of the crowd._

_Except… there were no songs to hear. There weren’t even any voices, no sounds of movement. Iliana opened her eyes, bewildered. There was nothing to listen for… because there was no one there. No one there at all._

_“They will not wait for you. Time to rest is a luxury you do not have.”_

_Iliana darted to her feet, upsetting her basket of fruits. They tumbled across the cobblestone and Iliana watched in shocked horror as they dissipated into ash before her eyes. She whirled around, gaze falling on a cloaked figure that stood on the other side of the fountain._

_“You…” she breathed, awestruck. Her chest heaved, unable to get enough air into her lungs as she fought against the rising tide of her panic. What was happening? Where was everyone? And who was this? “I’ve seen you before. Once… In a_ ― _In a dream.”_

_“That was no dream.” The voice seemed to come from every direction at once, low and raspy in a way that made Iliana involuntarily shudder. “And neither is this.”_

_“The place in between,” Iliana whispered, the words floating up from the depths of her memory. “In between what? Who are you? What is going on?”_

_“I have already told you who I am,” the figure replied, gliding closer to her. “It is my job to watch and to warn. But you have not heeded my advice.”_

_“Advice for what?” she questioned and shook her head, at a loss. She turned in a full revolution as the cloaked figure circled her. Although she could not see its face, she sensed it was studying her. Evaluating her._

_“You brought Light to the Realm of Shadow, Iliana Nightbloom,” they stated, and Iliana knew at once that she had heard these words before. “That action does not come without consequences. And you have ignored them.”_

_“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” Iliana frowned, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. “Speak plainly.”_

_Before Iliana even finished her sentence, the robed figure waved its hand. Iliana felt a phantom wind stir her hair and then_ ― _heat. There was a sudden scorching heat that rolled along her skin and Iliana watched as Whitetower transformed around her. Buildings crumbled to ash, eaten away by raging flames. Soot covered every surface and thick, black smoke blocked out the blue sky._

_“Do you remember now?” the being asked and Iliana’s legs trembled, her mind unable to process the destruction around her. “The Realms are in flux because your deeds, while great, have upset a precarious balance. We are now on the precipice of something even we cannot fathom.”_

_As they spoke, Iliana heard a great rumbling noise, like thousands of pounding footsteps. Or hundreds of mobilized troops._

_“The Empire of Ash,” Iliana realized aloud, cold dread creeping into her bones. “They’re coming. I attracted their attention and I_ ― _I brought them here.” She swallowed the lump in her throat, anxiously pushing her hands through her hair. “The Old Gods… You told me to find them. For this. To stop them.”_

_The figure silently nodded._

_“But how? What do I do? And how do I… How do I convince them to help?”_

_“You are already on your way,” the figure intoned, although its voice sounded different, far away_ ― _like a tinny echo of the real thing._

_Iliana’s surroundings transformed once more, but this time, she did not recognize the new landscape. She stood alone in a dark cavern, the space illuminated by a watery light from a source Iliana could not identify. She gazed around, looking for any indicator of where she was when her attention snagged on the back of the cave. Dark, volcanic rock gave away to a wall of smooth, foggy stone. Its surface was reflective, tarnished like a dusty mirror discarded in the corner of an old attic amongst other forgotten things. Iliana saw her own countenance in its smoky surface, wide emerald eyes staring back into her own._

_“You will have to make a deal.” The being’s voice was all around her, although its owner was nowhere to be found. “But you already have everything they need. They will not want to listen, so you must make them.”_

_“What_ ― _”_

 _But before Iliana could question the voice any further, a great bellow cut her off. No, not a bellow. A_ roar _._

_Behind her, daylight suddenly streamed through an opening in the cave that had not been there before. Iliana rushed towards the entrance, carefully picking her way over pieces of rubble and jagged stone. The air around her was pleasantly cool, the land blanketed in mist. A field of dark earth stretched out before her, dotted with plots of lush green grass and moss. The ground beneath her began to quake with the force of another awful cry._

_Iliana looked up, her body tensing in preparation for a fight, although deep down, she knew there was nothing she could do but brace for whatever was coming. At first, she saw only a vague outline, a massive shadow amongst the mist. But as it came closer and the shape drew ever nearer, Iliana felt her blood turn to ice and a scream lodge in her throat._

_She did not know exactly what it was that she saw. In all of Kade’s stories, she had never heard of a beast like this, of a creature so horrifying._

_As it swooped towards the earth, massive, leathery wings blotting out any remnants of the sun, Iliana stood stock still, absolutely petrified as she stared back at a giant set of blazing amethyst eyes, a body covered by impenetrable scales, and a wicked, gaping maw lined with thousands of vicious teeth. Iliana watched as a pinprick of light begin to burn like a smoldering ember at the back of the beast’s throat, steadily blazing brighter and brighter until fire and fury was all she knew._

* * *

Iliana awoke with a gasp, clutching at her chest, which was slick with sweat. Her body felt cold, a drastic change from the scorching heat she had felt only moments before.

Her gaze darted around the room as she raised her hand against the midday light that streamed through the window on the opposite wall. She was in some sort of bedroom, furnished with plush floor cushions and lots of lace. Motes of dust floated around the room, drifting in and out of shafts of daylight. Iliana’s hands fisted at her sides and she glanced down, noting the damp bed sheets clenched in her fingers.

“Easy, now. You’re safe.”

Iliana startled like a wild animal and looked up. Aerin sat in a floral-patterned chair, his gaze carefully trained on hers. He was slumped forward in a rather unrefined manner, although Iliana quickly saw the reason why. His wrists were tied together, bound with a coarse white rope. It did not look like Aerin had tried to slip his hands free, but the skin around the bindings was chafed. 

Iliana took a deep breath, taking in hints of lilac and pear. She relaxed into the downy pillows as she realized where she was. “We made it. To Nia’s.”

Aerin arched a single brow. “You don’t remember getting here?”

“I…” Iliana frowned. Her memories of their escape from the palace dungeon were hazy. She remembered escaping through the underground tunnel system, creeping through the Temple District, then―They had been spotted by the city watch. She had split off from Mal and Aerin to lead the guards away.

Iliana yanked up the edge of her lavender-colored tunic―which was actually _not_ hers, meaning someone had changed her clothes while she was unconscious―remembering the skirmish in which a shortsword that had grazed her ribs and left her side slick with her own blood. Across from her, Aerin made a small choking noise as he flushed and turned away while Iliana inspected her body for stitches or bruises. But she was surprised to find that there were no wounds. Her skin was clean and unmarred aside from a faint silvery scar that laid just beneath her breast bindings. 

“Nia healed you while you were unconscious,” Aerin informed her once she let her shirt fall back over her side. “And those are her clothes. Your old ones were covered in blood.”

Iliana nodded slowly, the memories gradually coming back to her. She had miraculously dealt with guards and hobbled back to their rendezvous point. She had almost made it to Nia’s front door when her body, at long last, gave into exhaustion and she collapsed, right into―

Now it was Iliana’s turn to blush. She glanced down at her lap and subconsciously rubbed the back of her neck, which was damp with a cold sweat.

“You were having a nightmare,” Aerin stated and Iliana resisted the urge to wilt under his scrutinizing gaze. She knew better than to deny it because she had no idea what kinds of things she uttered in her sleep. She could only hope that she had not done anything embarrassing, like scream.

She suppressed a shudder as she recalled the robed figure, the burning city, the strange cave, and the terrifying beast. She curled her fingers into her palm so they would not shake. “It’s nothing.”

The corners of Aerin’s mouth tightened ever so slightly, his lips thinning. They both knew that was a lie. Nevertheless, because he either did not want to know or he simply did not care to, Aerin chose not to pursue the matter any further. His gaze fell to her hand, something in his expression softening. “You still have it. My signet ring.”

She followed gaze to the gold ring on her thumb. _His_ gold ring. Amidst everything that had happened, she had forgotten to stow it away. 

“Oh. I… I do.” Iliana flushed and began to pull it off. “You can have it back. I suppose there’s no use in wearing it anymore. Not much good it can do.”

“No. Keep it. It’s yours,” Aerin said lightly, waving his bound hands dismissively. His body was at ease, but he still held himself with all the poise of a prince―proper and proud. His eyes darkened slightly as his attention lingered on the signet ring. “I do not want anything that reminds me of… I do not want it.”

For a moment, Iliana thought he was about to say _home._

She tilted her head, studying him just as he seemed to be studying her. 

Aerin looked disheveled but not exhausted, which she supposed was good. Iliana noted that he no longer wore the thin cotton clothes he had worn in his cell, but rather a pair of dark trousers and a tunic of the deepest forest green. It was loose on his shoulders, clearly borrowed, but it was certainly better than the threadbare rags he had been wearing before. As her gaze drifted down the length of him, she saw that even his ankles were tied.

“How long was I asleep?” she asked, drawing her attention up to his face once more.

“Almost two days.”

_“Two days?”_

“On and off so you could drink water, but you were hardly cognizant when you were awake.” For a moment, Aerin looked as if he were about to berate her, but he ultimately decided against it. “You were injured and according to Mal, you haven’t slept in days. It’s no surprise that you were unconscious for so long.”

“And you just let me lay here? Kade―”

“You’ll be no good to him if you die because you won’t take care of yourself.” Aerin cut in smoothly, his gaze flat. He sat back in his chair, shifting his shoulders as he tried to get comfortable. Iliana did not like it, but she knew he was right. “We had to wait a bit anyway for things to blow over and for Nia to devise a plan to get us out of Whitetower so we can rendezvous with the others.”

“The others?” Iliana straightened.

“Imtura Tal Kaelen and Tyril Starfury. Well, so far only Tyril has confirmed―no word yet from the princess. Nia sent word to them the night we came here.” He gave a half shrug, leaning his weight against one side of his chair. “We have arranged to meet in the heartoak forest on the northern border of Whitetower tomorrow evening. Tyril will be bringing a few drakes and intends to aid us in our search.” 

“He wants… to come with us?” Iliana said, her brow furrowing. She had not anticipated the others would be so willing to join her. It had been a surprise when Mal agreed. Now Tyril had joined in? “So, right now it’s you, me, Mal, and Tyril?”

“And the priestess and her nesper.”

“ _Nia’s_ coming, too? And Threep?” She was fully gaping at him now. 

“Yes. It seems like the whole lot of you are about as loyal as any pack of dogs,” Aerin sighed, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. When they fell back into his lap, he looked at her, gaze suddenly sincere and almost… bashful. 

“I want to apologize,” he said, his throat bobbing as he shifted, a light blush creeping up from beneath the collar of his shirt. “For burdening you the other night.”

Iliana lifted her gaze from the bindings on his hands and tilted her chin. “What do you mean?”

She turned so that her back faced him and began to heave the mountain of blankets off herself before swinging her legs over the side of the bed. For a moment, a wave of dizziness washed over her and she paused, waiting for her mind to settle as Aerin continued on.

“After we emerged from the tunnels,” he said slowly, softly. “The guards never would have spotted us if I hadn’t tripped over those crates. And you wouldn’t have had to…”

Aerin trailed off, but Iliana knew what he meant. She would not have had to use herself as bait to lead them away. Iliana sighed heavily and shrugged, at last getting to her feet. “There’s nothing to apologize for. You have no training in stealth and I can’t fault you for that. Honestly, I would have been surprised if we managed to pull all of that off without at least one thing going wrong.

“You aren’t… mad at me?”

Iliana glanced over her shoulder, brows raising in surprise. Mad at him? For that? Did he truly think she would be angry with him over such a small mistake? Iliana studied him carefully, her lips pursed. She reckoned Aerin had some skill with hiding his emotions―he must have if he was able to deceive her so. But she caught the slightest flicker of hesitance and fear, as if he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“I’ve been angry with you for months, Aerin,” Iliana sighed, although she certainly didn’t have it in her to feel any malice at the present moment. She paced a bit to get feeling back into her limbs as she considered him. “For many reasons. But something as simple as accidentally making a bit of noise is not one of them. Where are the others?”

“I…” Aerin simply stared at her, lips parted. He pressed them together, his throat bobbing as he glanced away. “Mal is downstairs sleeping. Nia went out to get some supplies for the journey.”

“And they left you here with me?” she asked, peering through the hole in the floor that led to Nia’s living room. She turned back in time to see Aerin stiffen as if he was offended by what she had implied: that he could not be trusted. Iliana did not bother to assuage him this time. 

“This was one of the conditions,” he replied, albeit a little bitterly as he held up his tied hands. 

“Tch.” Iliana shook her head as she spotted her pack in the corner of the room and crouched beside it. “What, did they expect you to be able to protect me while tied up like a roasted pig?”

“They’re _your_ friends.”

“Hmph.” Iliana drew a dagger from her pack. She crossed the room in three steady strides and sliced between his wrists, severing the rope. “I imagine this was Mal’s idea?”

“Indeed,” Aerin replied and dipped his chin gratefully, flexing his sore wrists, although his eyes tailed her cautiously.

“Then it was only out of spite.” Iliana cut through the ties at his ankles as well and stood. “If you were going to kill me, you would have done it much sooner. When I fought that guard in the dungeons, you could have stabbed me then. Or you could have let me bleed out in Nia’s front yard.” She gave him a look of appraisal. “But you didn’t. So thank you.”

Aerin glanced away, his cheeks reddening. “No need.”

Iliana’s brow rose at that. _Interesting._

Before Iliana could say anything else, she was interrupted by the sound of a door swinging shut down below. She hurried to the hole in the floor and peered over the edge. A grin broke out on her face. “Nia!”

The priestess jumped in surprise, nearly upsetting the basket of supplies in her arms. She quickly caught herself, face alighting with a bright smile. “Iliana, you’re awake! Thank the gods!”

Iliana felt her lips twist at that as she remembered her… dream? Vision? She didn’t know what to call it. As she clambered down the ladder, Iliana had a sinking feeling that their journey was no longer just about finding Kade. Iliana still did not know what to make of the things she had seen in her sleep―the mysterious figure, the Empire of Ash, the cave, and the fire-breathing beast. But the message was clear, just as it had been months ago: danger was on the horizon. Iliana did not know how exactly it would come or when, but there was only one thing she could do to stop it. She had to find the Old Gods.

She had ignored the robed figure once before, and it could not be a coincidence that it returned in her dreams to persuade her to seek the very thing her own brother had gone searching for. She would have to talk to the others about it first, but Iliana thought that they might as well kill two birds with one stone and find these damned gods while they were already sniffing along their trail for Kade. Before it was too late.

Iliana could only hope they would agree to join her because although she wanted them to be safe, she was not certain she could face what was coming alone.

Threep poked his head out from her satchel, mismatched eyes widening. “Good to see you in good health, Lady Iliana.”

“Thanks, Threep.” Iliana hopped off the edge of the ladder, noting that Mal was still sound asleep on Nia’s plush bench as she enveloped the priestess in a hug. She followed her into the kitchen area and helped Nia unpack her basket as Threep jumped out of the satchel and curled up on the bench near Mal’s head, his tail flicking across the man’s sleeping face. “The princeling filled me in on everything. You’ve decided to come with us to find Kade?”

“Yes, and don’t even try to persuade to do otherwise,” she said primly, taking Iliana’s hand and pressing an apple into her palm. “You should eat. You were out for a while.”

“I wasn’t going to even try.” Iliana smiled, shining the apple off on the sleeve of her tunic. She took a bite, the tart juices overwhelming her tastebuds. She did not realize until then just how hungry she was. Although she was starving, Iliana forced herself to pace herself to avoid upsetting her stomach. “I know when people tell me not to do something, it only makes me want to do it more.” 

“Good.” Nia patted Iliana’s elbow. Her eyes strayed to the corner of the room and rose to the ceiling, warm gaze chilling by several degrees. “Is he…?”

“He’s still up there,” Iliana answered. “He didn’t try to hurt me. And I cut his bindings.”

“I didn’t think he would try to, but Mal insisted it was for the best.” Nia frowned, glancing at the sleeping rogue.

Iliana shrugged, dropping her voice so that only Nia could hear. “I don’t blame him. Aerin’s fooled us once before, so it _is_ good to be cautious. But if he were to try anything, it certainly wouldn’t be fighting. Combat isn’t his greatest skill.”

“Do you think he will?” Nia asked softly. “Try anything, I mean.”

Iliana pursed her lips, focusing on laying out Nia’s supplies as she thought. “I don’t know,” she admitted after a few moments. “I don’t think so. There’s no motive. But I also don’t know why he would even bother helping us.”

“He could be trying to atone,” Nia guessed, drawing out a heavy bundle of white fabric from the bottom of the basket. “To make up for all the bad things he’s done. Maybe he regrets killing Prince Baldur and betraying us.”

Iliana leaned her weight on the table and mulled that over, drumming her fingers against its smooth surface. “If he was trying to make up for it all―to change… Would you be able to forgive him? Of all of us, he used you the most.”

For a moment, Nia’s face twisted into a mask of anger, an expression Iliana very rarely saw on the kind-hearted woman. “Forgive him? No. He handed me over to the Dreadlord like I was nothing more than a puppet to be controlled. I don’t think I could ever forgive that, Iliana. Ever.” She sighed, some of the fury draining from her as she hugged the bundle closer to herself, suddenly looking very small and vulnerable. “But if he really is trying to change, well… Isn’t that one of the things we hope criminals will do when we punish them? Learn from their mistakes and try to be better?”

Iliana bit her lip. “I suppose…” 

“Well, if that’s the case with Aerin, then I won’t try to stop him from trying to be good,” Nia took her bottom lip between her teeth and shrugged. “It’s not my place to decide if someone gets to work on changing themself. Sometimes, I wonder what kind of person the prince would have been if his family hadn’t been so awful and the Dreadlord hadn’t gotten his claws in him.”

Iliana nodded slowly. She couldn’t deny that she had similar thoughts, especially as of late. She did not fully understand the Dreadlord’s influence on Aerin. He wasn’t like the orc captain of Ventra Tal Kaelen’s fleet, driven to madness by hallucinations produced by the Shard. No, he was a true member of the Shadow Court and he acted upon his own will, fully believing in what he did. 

But Iliana wondered if his will could really be considered his own if the Dreadlord been in his ear for years, subtly shaping the person Aerin had become. If the Dreadlord had gotten into _her_ head when she was nothing more than another lost child, orphaned by a massacre, wouldn’t she have grown to be a different person? 

Growing up under the light hand of Amphitryon and his wife, Alcmene, Iliana had little to no guidance. Her quiet life in Riverbend had granted her the freedom to shape herself, but in between the Dreadlord, his brother, and the weight of his parents’ neglect, Aerin had only ever been shaped for the shadows.

“I guess we just have to see what he does,” Nia said after a long while, drawing Iliana out of her thoughts.

“But you don’t think we should trust him,” she stated, folding her arms across her chest.

“No.” Nia frowned, glancing down. “Not yet.”

Iliana knew that was fair. Probably wise, as well. And yet… Iliana thought of the other night, how she had stumbled through Nia’s gate, barely unable to stand, let alone walk. The shock and fear in Aerin’s voice had been real, she was certain of it. And his touch had been almost unbearably gentle when he caught her. Perhaps it was all a trick but Iliana found herself wanting to believe it. And maybe that meant she was already compromised.

 _Compromised._ Unable to use clear judgment, to make the right choice. _Compromised…_ That was a thought she would have to circle back to later. 

Iliana followed Nia’s gaze to the bundle of fabric in her arms. She jutted her chin in its direction. “What’s all that?”

Nia straightened, holding up the material between her hands as if she had forgotten all about it. “Oh! Right. Here, take this. This one is yours.”

She drew out a bit of fabric from the whole and handed it to Iliana, who, upon unfolding it, saw that it was a finely made robe trimmed in gold. “Nia, are these priests’ robes?”

“Yes. Well, these are for acolytes.” She laid out the pile of robes on the table and began to smooth them out as she spoke. “I picked these up today. They’re our way out of Whitetower.”

Iliana’s brows rose. “How so?”

“Well, I may not be an official priestess of the Temple anymore, but most people still think I am, including the guards,” Nia explained, taking the robe from Iliana’s hands and holding it up for her to slip her arms through. Like all of the priests’ clothing, it was loose and heavy, but she supposed it fit well enough. “You three can pose as my students and I will tell the guards that I’m taking you on a pilgrimage to see all of Morella’s temples, just as Scholar Vash did with me.” 

She reached out, tugging Iliana’s hood up so that the shadows concealed most of her face. 

“But you must keep your hood on and your head down, or else they will recognize you. Those who are associated with the Temple are usually left alone. I don’t like abusing these privileges, but perhaps…” She looked down, a frown tugging at her lips. “Perhaps the priests shouldn’t have them in the first place. People should not be treated differently because of what they do or where they come from.”

“Why play fair when the game itself is unfair?” Iliana murmured, catching on to Nia’s line of thought as she smirked slightly. “Careful, Nia. You’re starting to sound like Mal. Another revolutionary.”

Nia blushed and she glanced away, tucking her long hair behind her ear. “If you think it’s immoral, Iliana, we can figure out another way―”

“I didn’t say you two were wrong,” Iliana teased, reaching out to squeeze her friend’s shoulder reassuringly. Iliana’s brow knitted, a slight flaw in the plan tugging at the edge of her mind. “But won’t they stop and question you? The guards know you’re our friend.”

“S’already happened, kit,” Mal answered from the couch as he slowly pushed himself into a seated position, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand. He wrinkled his nose and grimaced, swatting Threep’s tail away from his face.

“What do you mean?”

“The guards came by while you were unconscious,” Nia explained, leaving Iliana’s side to take a robe to Mal. She held up the long flowy fabric beside him and glanced back and forth, her gaze scrutinizing. “That should fit,” she decided, tossing it into his lap. “They questioned me at my door while the rest of you were hiding in the attic. They wanted to come in but―”

“But she invoked the whole ‘I am a Priestess of Light! How dare you demand to come into my holy abode with your weapons as I pray for your wellbeing!’ card,” Mal cut in, gesturing grandly as he spoke, just like he always did while telling a story. 

“Oh?” Iliana turned to Nia with her brows raised, impressed. “Did you really?”

Nia’s blush deepened. “I mean, not _exactly_ like that.”

“Oh, you should have seen it, kit. Good to see you’re up, by the way,” Mal continued as he shrugged on the robes. “I was shaking in my boots. I think even the princeling paled a bit―” He stopped abruptly, face falling. “Speak of the devil, where is he? Why is no one watching him?”

When neither Iliana nor Nia responded, he scowled and made for the ladder. But before he could start to climb, Iliana reached out, grabbing him by the back of his clothes and tugging him away.

“Cool it, Mal,” she chided, hauling him towards the couch. “No one was watching him when you and I were sleeping. We both know he’s not going to try anything right now. And,” Iliana added when Mal opened his mouth to protest. “He _doesn’t_ need to be tied up.”

“But―”

“No buts,” she interjected, rubbing her temples. “We’ll all keep an eye on him, but if we’re going to traveling together for who knows how long, we need to be able to coexist, alright? So no more of this. I don’t like it either, but working with him is only temporary, okay?”

After a moment, Mal begrudgingly nodded, folding his arms. “Fine. But I still think someone should watch him.”

Iliana sighed. He was right about that at least. “We all will,” she stated, turning to Nia. “Do you have a disguise for him, too?”

“Of course,” she replied, handing it over the last robe. “I don’t know him as well, but I think that should fit.”

“Thanks, Nia.” Iliana took the bundle of fabric and slung it over her shoulder as she began to ascend the ladder.

When she emerged into the attic, she saw that Aerin still sat in his chair, elbow propped up on the arm, his chin cradled in his hand, and eyes trained on the window. Outside, the sun was setting, bathing the city of Whitetower in an orangeish glow. Iliana supposed the view was pretty, but she instead took a moment to simply observe Aerin’s profile, the way the dying light gilded his lashes and his hazel eyes seemed to burn with an inner fire.

“My brother would have told you that you are wasting your time trying to smooth things over with me and the others. He never believed in diplomacy.” Aerin said dully, drawing his gaze away from the window. He stared at her for a few long moments, expressionless, then stooped to retrieve a length of rope from the floor before holding out his hands. “You can put them back on if you’d like.”

Iliana frowned, glancing between the rope and Aerin’s face. “You promise you won’t try to kill me?”

Aerin let out a short huff that might have just passed for a laugh. “You have my word, Iliana. Whatever that means to you.”

“Then that’s not necessary.” Iliana tossed the robe in his direction and Aerin caught it with nimble fingers, dropping the bindings. “Try that on,” she instructed him, turning back towards the ladder. “And come help us pack. We leave tomorrow.”


	7. Ignited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the escape plan goes south, the party makes their stand in the heartoak forest and Aerin is forced to confront some harsh truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: blood and violence

The following evening, Nia led Mal, Aerin, and Iliana through the winding streets of Whitetower toward the northern border of the city.

“Remember,” she instructed as they drew closer to the city gates. “Keep your hoods up and your heads down. Try not to draw any unnecessary attention. I will do the talking.”

“They grow up so fast,” Mal teased from his spot right behind Nia. “Not even a year ago, she was the perfect, most law-abiding citizen, and now she’s smuggling three of Morella’s highest-profile criminals out of its own capital.”

“Oh gods, does this make me a criminal too?” Nia paused, glancing back at them as she anxiously wrung her fingers.

“He’s only teasing, Nia,” Iliana assured her from the back of the line, reaching around Aerin to roughly shove Mal’s shoulder. Once they started moving again, Aerin felt her hand settle on his shoulder as she murmured, “Do you still have that sword?”

Aerin’s fingers grazed the top of the sword he had swiped in the dungeons, which was sheathed at his side. He craned his neck to glance back at her although her face was concealed by her robes. “Yes. Why? Do you think we’ll need it?”

“Well, I suppose if this  _ does  _ make me a criminal,” Nia was saying from up ahead. “At least it is for a good reason. We’re going to save Iliana’s brother. That’s a noble cause.”

Mal snickered. “The road to the seven hells is paved―”

“Don’t you  _ dare _ finish that sentence, Mal Volari. Leave Nia alone, you Gabberjack,” Iliana snapped just as Threep poked his head out of Nia’s satchel and hissed. 

Mal held up his hands in surrender. “Fine! Fine. Not another word from me. Sheesh.”

Aerin glanced between them, half expecting Iliana to tackle the Whitetower Reaper, but she only sighed and turned her attention back to him. “I don’t know,” she admitted, keeping her voice low. “But with us, nothing ever goes as planned. Just… stay alert. I have a feeling that things aren’t going to be as simple as they seem.”

Aerin frowned. He did not like the sound of that one bit. Nevertheless, he nodded, wrapping his robes tighter around himself to ward off the chill, even if it did come from within.

“Are you cold?”

Iliana now walked almost in-step with him. He couldn’t see her face, but Aerin would have guessed by the tone of her voice that she was almost concerned, although he knew better than to believe it. 

“It’s just, I noticed that you’re always huddled in on yourself,” Iliana explained hesitantly, as if she was unsure whether it was her place to speak. “Are you… well?”

Was he? Aerin had a suspicion that his constant chill was just his body’s reaction to losing the Dreadlord’s power, but he doubted that now was the time to have that conversation. The last thing he needed was for Iliana to know just how dependent he had been on the shadow and grow even warier of him or begin to doubt his usefulness. Although he would not put up a fight if she had decided to send him back, Aerin was not quite ready to return to his frigid cell. Not when he had gotten this taste of freedom. 

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he assured her, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “I just caught a bit of a cold in the dungeons. There was always a draft down there and the stone was damp.”

Iliana let out a displeased huff. “I still cannot believe your father kept you down there all this time. I mean, not that you didn’t deserve it for everything, but…” 

Aerin tried and failed not to wince at that but he kept his head down, refusing to let her see how the mention of the king stung.

“But still,” she continued, softer this time. “You’re his son. You think he would have learned his lesson. When he told me he hadn’t even visited you once―”

Aerin stiffened. “You spoke to him?”

Iliana’s footsteps faltered beside him. “I―well, yes. Just before I came to you. He was the one who suggested that I check the dungeons for Kade. He told me Kade often kept you company when he wasn’t in the archives.”

So Kade had never told her about visiting him. Aerin briefly wondered if that had more to do with his own character or if Kade had wanted to avoid answering the question of  _ why _ he frequented the dungeons―to spare his sister from the truth: no matter how much he jested or how often she checked up on him, he would always be haunted by the Realm of Shadow, and only Aerin knew what that felt like. 

“What―” Aerin cleared his throat, banishing the sudden hoarseness that had overtaken his voice. “What did my father say? About me?”

He knew Kade and King Arlan had spoken on numerous occasions about him, but until now, he had never wanted to know the details of their conversations, at least not while he was trapped in that cell. He knew that somehow, it would only make his imprisonment worse.

Iliana hesitated beside him and Aerin was about to plead with her when she began to speak. “He told me to tell you ‘Hello,’” she confessed and Aerin noticed that her fingers were anxiously fiddling with the thumb of her leather glove, right over the spot he knew his signet ring rested. “But I told him that he should tell you himself.”

Aerin felt his throat tighten. It was such a small gesture and Iliana certainly had no idea what it meant to him, but it had been so long―years, even―since he had someone in his corner. His voice was as sincere as it had ever been as he whispered, “Thank you.”

Iliana turned towards him, her hood shifting as she did, and for a moment, Aerin saw the startling green of her eyes, the gentle slope of her cheek. “Aerin―”

“Gods  _ damn _ it!”

Iliana whipped her head in Mal’s direction, breaking their stare. “What is it―oh hells.”

Aerin turned to see what was the cause of their dismay and felt his heart sink into his stomach. There was a large crowd amassed at the Whitetower border, primarily made up of families, farmers, and merchants with wagons and carts in tow. They were all waiting to leave through the gates, which were lined with heavily armed guards.

“They’re questioning all of the travelers!” Nia gasped as they began to weave through the hordes of people. Upon seeing Nia, some villagers bowed their heads and stepped aside to allow her and her party to pass.

“And making them pay for passage,” Mal snarled, waving a cloaked hand towards the nearest guard, who was waiting for a flustered merchant to hand over his earnings for the day. “Although I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Anger rose in Aerin, swift and vicious. “This isn’t just. The Captain of the Guard never would have ordered this. Some of these people live outside of the city and are just trying to get home! Night is falling, they can’t hold them here and demand payment for just trying to go home!”

“Yeah? And why not?” Mal questioned, glancing back. He kept his voice low, but it was no less bitter. “Who’s going to stop them? Hate to break it to you, princeling, but I’m gonna give it to you square. Your guards have been taking advantage of people like this for years. We’ve taken our complaints to the people in charge and all they have ever done is turn a blind eye. So take a good, long look at what your people have been going through while you royals look the other way.”

“That’s not true!” Aerin protested, his cheeks reddening as the slightest bit of warmth bloomed in his chest, barely more than an ember. “If my father knew―”

“Your father knew,” Mal snapped and Aerin flinched at his ferocity, his back bumping into Iliana’s chest. “No king, no matter how ignorant, doesn’t know what goes on in his own damn capital. Why else would guards constantly be sniffing around the Nooks and Crannies like bloodhounds? Because they know that’s where the rabble live and that’s where they can get away doing anything they want.”

Aerin opened his mouth to argue, but the words died on his tongue. Mal was… Mal was right. There was no way Arlan could not know about this―any of it. Even Aerin, who spent a large portion of his life cloistered in the palace and operated without an entire unit of informants and counselors, had known about the existence of the Nooks and Crannies.

It suddenly made sense now, why Baldur had merely scoffed in his face when Aerin had brought it up, why his petition for relief had gone ungranted. He had not been bringing any news to the table. His father and brother had not dismissed him out of ignorance, as Aerin had always assumed. They dismissed him because they already knew and simply did not care.

“I…” Aerin trailed off, at a complete loss for words. His fury was smothered by the weight of this realization, the ember in his chest winking out as his body grew cold once more. He could only stare at the faces of the people he shouldered by― _ his _ people―and accept that even before he had lost the battle in the Shadow Realm and had his power stripped away, he had failed them.

He startled when he felt a gloved hand slip into his own, squeezing gently. Aerin twisted around at his waist as he continued forward and just barely glimpsed Iliana’s solemn face beneath her hood.

“You are not your father, Aerin,” she said softly, just loud enough for him to hear her amidst the tangle of voices around them. “Or your brother.”

Aerin frowned, tendrils of sorrow creeping into his chest for the first time in―well, he didn’t even know how long. “This is not the way it should be.”

Even through the shadows, he saw a flicker of understanding dawn on her countenance, and for a moment, Aerin allowed himself to believe that perhaps she saw him―truly saw him―and understood all of the choices he had made. But in the end, she only nodded and withdrew her touch, leaving him bereft.

“Let’s just focus on getting out of here,” Iliana suggested, urging him forward. “There’s nothing we can do for them now.”

Aerin hated that she was right. He continued on, forcing himself not to let his gaze linger for too long on any single face, young or old, as he followed Mal and Nia through the crowd all the way up to the city’s gates.

“You there!” A guard shouted as they finally drew close. Several of them blocked the path between the city’s walls, each one occupied with questioning their own group of travelers. Immediately, Aerin dropped his head, keeping his gaze on his feet and letting his hood obscure his face as instructed. “Halt! All travelers are subject to inspection upon leaving the city. State your business.”

“Of course. I am Nia Ellarious, a priestess of the Temple of Light,” he heard Nia say brightly and Aerin was momentarily impressed by the authority in her voice. Yes, she had come a long way indeed from the uncertain acolyte he had met in the Deadwood. “As you can see, these are my students. I am taking them on a pilgrimage to visit all of the Temples of Morella, just as my own mentor did for me.”

“Your students are a little… tall, priestess,” the guard noted, clearly skeptical.

“Oh!” Nia exclaimed. “Well, yes they are but… People of all ages are welcome to join the Temple of Light! These are some of our older initiates but also our most powerful. In fact, have you ever considered joining the Temple? Former knights often make some of the most disciplined and devout followers!”

Aerin swore he heard Mal choke on a laugh that was barely disguised as a cough. Aerin had to admit the priestess wasn’t bad at improvising.

“Oh! Well… perhaps I will look into that,” the guard said, confusion and pride laced through her voice. “As for your pilgrimage… you wish to begin your journey now? Night is falling fast, priestess, and the woods are full of danger.”

“Oh, yes,” Nia replied smoothly. “What better a time to practice using the Light than in the dark?”

Almost as if on cue, an Orb of Light flared to life in Iliana’s hand, although she held it off to the side so that none of their faces were illuminated. 

“Ah, see? Very good, Il―um, June,” Nia praised, stumbling slightly but quickly catching her mistake. “As you can see, my students are very talented. We are more than prepared to face anything that lurks in the night, I assure you.”

The guard did not reply. Rather, he heard her heavy footsteps and the scrape of her boots against the cobblestone as she came closer. Aerin lifted his head ever so slightly, just enough to watch the guard close in on Mal, peering into the depths of his hood and reaching to pull it back.

“Ahem!” Nia cleared her throat, voice stern and sharp. “I would appreciate it if you do not harass my acolytes, my good lady. Now if you don’t mind, we would like to continue on our way. We have a lot of traveling to do before we reach our first Temple.”

“I…” The guard stilled, her gloved fingers hovering over Mal’s hood. Then she dropped her hand and stepped back. “Apologies, priestess. Safe travels.”

Nia smiled brilliantly. “May the Light guide you.”

She led them through the gates. Aerin allowed himself a small sigh of relief as they passed by the guards without being given so much as a second glance and continued down the road toward the forest that lay beyond.

“Well done, Nia,” he said softly once they were out of earshot.

“Oh!” She glanced back, surprised to hear his praise. “I… thank you, Aerin.”

“The prince is right,” Iliana agreed, reaching out to squeeze Nia’s arm. “You handled that beautifully.”

“I’d say!” Mal added, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Looks like we got another smooth crim―”

Mal was suddenly cut off by a cry of distress. “Wait! That is my husband and my son! The four of us are together!”

As one, the party turned to face the crowd on the other side of the gates once more. A few paces away from the guard who had let them through was the source of that cry. A woman stood at the edge of the gates, one arm wrapped around a little girl as the other pointed over the shoulder of the guard that blocked her path. Beyond the guard and Whitetower’s wall stood a man and a small boy who anxiously looked on.

“No payment, no passage,” the soldier said, using his hand to push the woman back. “Your coin is only enough for those two to pass.”

“Please, sir,” the woman’s husband begged, guiding his son to stand behind him. “We gave you everything we have on us for now. I promise, we have more coin back at our house in the countryside. We can bring it to you tomorrow morning―”

“ _ One _ of you can bring it tomorrow,” the guard snapped, unrelenting. “These two will have to wait in the city until you return.”

“Please―” The woman began, but the guard only urged her back. Aerin felt his anger rise in him once more, his nails biting into the flesh of his palms as he clenched his hands into fists and ground his teeth.

“You will be waiting in a  _ cell  _ if you do not comply!” 

“Papa!” The little girl tore free from her mother and sprinted past the guards, her small arms outstretched. Before she could reach him, a pair of gauntleted fingers knotted in the back of her tunic and yanked her off the ground. The guard held her across his chest and grabbed the woman’s wrist in a bruising grip.

“You there!” he bellowed at a fellow member of the watch. “Take my place. I’m bringing these two to the cells. 

“No!”

“Those bastards!” Mal snarled, lunging forward.

Nia grabbed his arm, holding him back with all of her might. “Mal, don’t!”

But it wasn’t Mal she needed to worry about.

“Hey!” Aerin snapped, his anger reaching a boiling point as the guard began to haul the woman and her daughter away. Before anyone could react, he hurled himself at the guard. “Let them go!”

“Wait, don’t!” Aerin felt Iliana’s fingers just barely snag on the cuff of his sleeve, but he tore free, throwing himself at the guard and causing him to drop their hold on the little girl. He watched, content, as the girl sprinted through the gates and into the father’s arms. Now, for her mother―

Aerin’s entire world spun wildly off its axis as a gauntleted hand caught him across the face and he went sprawling to the ground. He spluttered as blood streamed from his nose and into his mouth, staining the stark white fabric of his robes.

“Don’t touch him!” Nia shrieked from somewhere in the distance. “He is protected by the Temple of the Light―”

“What’s this now?” 

Aerin was yanked into a sitting position by the front of his robes. Still dazed, he reached out blindly, his fingers sliding along chainmail. The guard―

Before Aerin could pull away or shield himself, his hood was tugged back, exposing his face for all to see. Aerin watched the other man’s gaze settle on his countenance and cursed himself as the guard reared back, face slackening with recognition. “It’s the―”

Aerin inhaled sharply, then spat, blood and saliva coating the guard’s face and helmet. It was a dirty move, and frankly, quite disgusting, but it was also a highly effective move and one he imagined Iliana and Mal might be proud of. Taking advantage of the man’s surprise, Aerin shoved him off and scrambled back. 

_ “What have you done?” _ Someone hissed in his ear―Iliana. He felt her arms slide beneath his, hauling him to her feet. She yanked his hood back over his head and wrapped her arm around his waist to steer him away―which Aerin was secretly thankful for because at this point, he was not entirely sure he could walk straight. His head was still reeling from the blow he had been dealt and his entire face ached. His nose was probably broken. Again. 

“We need to go,” Iliana said lowly, guiding him to where the others stood. “Before―”

“It’s the prince! The prince is escaping!”

Aerin nearly choked at the colorful string of words that left Iliana’s mouth at that moment. They were so vile and  _ creative _ he was certain they would have made his mother faint and his brother wheeze with laughter. That is of course, if Baldur was still―

_ Definitely not the time to go down that path,  _ he chided himself, forcing his legs to keep up with Iliana’s as she broke out into a sprint.

“Go!” she yelled to Mal and Nia, but they waited until she and Aerin reached them to flee into the surrounding woods. Behind them, shouts of alarm went up from the city watch.

“It’s the dark prince!”

“That must be the elf girl!”

“Get them!”

“So now I’m just ‘the elf girl?’” Iliana grumbled to herself, pulling him beyond the treeline of the heartoak forest. As they ran, her hood fell back, revealing her face. Oh, she was absolutely  _ livid.  _ “What did we tell you? Keep your head down, your hood up, and don’t draw any attention!”

“Well, what was he supposed to do?” Mal demanded from somewhere on their left. Aerin caught a blur of white, stark in the moonlight. “Let that family get separated?”

“We need to shed the robes,” Aerin panted, awkwardly trying to shrug out of his while running with Iliana’s arm around him. “They’re too bright. They’ll spot us easily.”

“They would have been separated for a single night, Mal. Not hunted like we are!” Iliana snapped back as if Aerin hadn’t spoken.

“Have you been in one of the Whitetower prisons?” Mal countered angrily. “No child should ever endure that, even for a few hours!”

“Well, now look―”

“Iliana, _ the robes,” _ Aerin insisted, yanking on her arm to get her attention.

She swore, her hand sliding from his waist to grip his elbow. “Can you run on your own?”

Aerin swallowed back blood but nodded. At least his head had cleared. “Yes.”

Iliana released his arm and began to shuck off her Temple robes as Aerin and Mal did the same, leaving them on the ground. Behind them, the shouts and pounding footsteps grew ever louder. 

“Nia, how much further to Tyril?” Iliana questioned, glancing back. Torchlights were scattered amongst the trees far behind them, but not far enough.

“Not far!” she called back from up ahead, her voice light and winded. Aerin was somewhat relieved to see that he wasn’t the only one who was already tired of running. He stumbled over one of the massive heartoak’s twisting roots but just barely caught himself. “We just need to make it to him in time!”

Threep stuck his head out of Nia’s satchel, his small face screwed up with irritation as the bag repeatedly swung against the priestess’ hip. “That’s assuming Lord Tyril is already there waiting for us!”

“Tell me, Threep,” Mal huffed, glancing over his shoulder. “When is elf boy ever  _ not  _ on time?”

“It never hurts to have a second plan of action, just in case―my word!”

Threep ducked back into Nia’s satchel as an arrow whizzed over his head, embedding itself in the trunk of a nearby tree.

“Gods, they’re really shooting at a priestess!” Mal gaped. “Use evasive maneuvers, everyone! Don’t give them an easy target to hit!”

“Oh, so she’s a criminal when you think it’s funny, but a holy priestess when we’re running for our lives,” Iliana remarked a bit breathlessly before snatching Aerin’s sleeve―why was she always doing that? Not that he minded terribly. She led him in a zig-zagging pattern, weaving in and out of the ancient trees as arrows shot over their heads.

“Hey, kit! Quick question!”

“What?” Iliana snarled.

“Why don’t you and I just kill these guys?” Mal’s voice came from somewhere nearby, although Aerin could not see him or Nia in the woods. Which was good because it likely meant their pursuers could not spot them either.

Aerin could practically feel Iliana’s frustration roll off of her as she replied, “Because there are two of us, Mal, and gods know how many of them! And we’re  _ not  _ killing anyone!”

“They’re shooting at us!”

“They’re  _ doing their jobs!” _ Aerin and Iliana snapped at once, rousing a startled expression from both of them.

“Princeling, would you  _ pick a side?” _

“Unbelievable,” Iliana muttered and Aerin was inclined to agree.

Before long, they finally emerged into a clearing, reconvening as a single unit. The guards on their tail had stopped firing arrows, but they were not far behind. Beside him, Aerin heard a broken sound of relief fall from Iliana’s lips as their eyes settled on a familiar figure flanked by three large shapes at the center of the clearing.

“Tyril!” she cried, releasing Aerin’s sleeve to throw her arms around the elf lord. Her momentum would have been enough to knock most people over, but Tyril held steady. His arms wrapped around her, squeezing tightly and lifting her up. It was a warm, albeit brief reunion, and Aerin shifted awkwardly on his feet.

“What is all of this?” Tyril questioned, pulling away. His bright blue eyes flicked between the rest of the group, narrowing slightly when they fell upon Aerin although he refrained from commenting. “You’re all out of breath.”

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Iliana frowned, turning back towards the forest. “But things didn’t go as planned. We’ve brought the fight to you. Whitetower soldiers are after us.”

“Well, let’s get on those drakes and go!” Mal urged, darting towards one of the majestic creatures.

No sooner had he spoken did an arrow fly out of the treeline and pierce the ground between Mal’s feet.

Instantly, everyone scrambled away from the edge of the clearing. Tyril’s face hardened and he drew his sword, staring coldly into the heartoak forest beyond. “No. Your pursuers are too close. They’ll shoot us out of the sky.” He glanced over his shoulder, barking something in elvish and the drakes took off, hiding amongst the trees. When he faced forward once more, there was an icy determination in his gaze. “We fight.”

“Oh, dear,” Threep mumbled from inside Nia’s pack. “Why couldn’t you have strung me up along with the drakes  _ before  _ you set them off?”

“Don’t be silly, Threep, you’re going to be fine,” Nia assured him, patting her bag as her skin began to glow almost silverish with an inner light. 

“Yeah, you mangy cat,” Mal added, unsheathing his daggers. “You helped us take on the Shadow Court. A bunch of grunts in fancy armor is nothing in comparison.”

“Who are you calling mangy?” Threep hissed, emerging from Nia’s satchel in a flurry of fur and wings.

“Ha!” Mal laughed, flipping a blade in his hand. “There you are.”

“Remember,” Iliana said, glancing around at all of them as she slid her sword from its scabbard. “These men and women think they are doing what’s right. We aren’t fighting to kill. Non-lethal wounds only. Leave them unconscious or unable to fight, preferably only for tonight. A few weeks of recovery at most.”

Aerin felt some of the tension leave his body. He was relieved that  _ someone  _ said it.

“That’s a lot of rules, kit. I might accidentally forget one.” 

“There will be witnesses,” Tyril said gravely, scanning the trees. They could hear the oncoming guards, see their torches growing closer and closer. “After tonight, all of Morella will know that we have escaped with the prince and will think we are traitors to the Crown.”

“Perhaps they will remember we only tried to disable them?” Nia suggested hopefully. “We don’t mean them any real harm.”

“It’s a nice thought, priestess, but unlikely,” Mal replied and Aerin knew he was right.

“How will this affect House Starfury’s standing?” Iliana asked, glancing over at Tyril.

Tyril shrugged. “Those important to me know the truth of why I have left. Besides, you know how elven politics are. One moment you are House Ascendant, the next you are barely more than dust. If we fall, we will rise yet again. But I do not believe it will come to that. I have the utmost faith in Adrina. She will be fine.” 

“Good.” Iliana grinned. There was a bit of a challenge in the curve of her lips, her teeth glinting like a knife’s wicked edge. “Just making sure that you’re with us. Traitors and all.”

Tyril offered her a rare smile. “I’m with all of you. To the bitter end.”

Iliana’s gaze slid to Aerin’s. Her fingertips just barely ghosted over the back of his hand, her touch so light, Aerin could not be certain it was intentional. “Will you be okay fighting your own men?”

He clenched his jaw, drawing his blade. “I have to be.”

Aerin watched a crease form in between her brows and sensed that she was about to say more when members of the city watch burst into the clearing, bellowing their fury.

A wave of energy pulsed from Tyril’s outstretched hand, blasting the first wave of soldiers to the ground, but more kept coming.

“Light guide us,” Nia breathed. “Just how many guards have come after us?” 

“Given how important the prince is and how dangerous the rest of us are?” Mal let out a long-suffering sigh. “Probably all of them.”

“Then we better move fast,” Iliana muttered. “Before they all come down upon us.”

Without further ado, she charged forward, sweeping up the Blade of Sol in a wide arc to meet the swords of two soldiers, disarming them both before slamming the flat of her blade against the backs of their helmets. Tyril dove in after her, incapacitating any and all soldiers that came into his reach. Mal ducked as one woman slashed for his head, then gripped her forearm and used her momentum to swing her into her fellow members of the watch. 

Aerin, while trained in sword fighting, was not an actual fighter like the rest of them. He knew how to strike and parry, which he haltingly did against the soldiers that came after him. His movements were stiff, guided by his mind rather than muscle memory, and it took a while for his limbs to warm up to the action. 

As Aerin ducked, a blade whistling over his head, he found himself desperately missing the small inventions he had gathered over time that could have taken on some of the fighting for him. The electric beads that he had used on the drakna queen, for example, would have been perfect for disabling these soldiers without truly harming them. If only they had time to sneak into his old rooms after Iliana had broken him out of his cell, he could have picked up a number of contraptions that would be useful for their journey.

Aerin knocked out another knight, almost losing his hand in the process. It was a close encounter―too close. If he wasn’t careful, if he got sloppy or tired, he might lose more than his hand.

As Aerin wearily engaged with another soldier―they just kept streaming out of the trees, an endless onslaught of Whitetower’s men―he heard Nia yell,  _ “Close your eyes!” _

_ What? _

Before Aerin could process what that meant, a brilliant light suddenly flooded the clearing, blinding him. Aerin stumbled back, shielding his eyes but he had reacted too late. His vision flared white for a disorienting few seconds, not for long, but long enough.

Just as Aerin finally recovered, he felt a vicious sting as sharp steel bit into the side of his shoulder. He cried out, spinning away before he suffered anything worse than a shallow cut. When he looked up, he wished he knew half of the colorful words Iliana had used earlier, because they certainly captured the frustration he felt now.

A hulking soldier towered before him, a brutish man that was as big and wide as some orcs. Aerin barely dodged the battle axe that swung down, nearly cleaving him in two. Aerin’s eyes widened as he took in the reinforced steel and gilded edge of the weapon as the massive soldier yanked it from the ground where Aerin had once stood. That weapon could not belong to just any member of the city watch. No, this man belonged to his father’s Royal Guard. 

“You should not have left, prince,” the soldier grunted, hefting his axe once more. “That cell of yours was kinder than what’s coming for you.”

Aerin held up his sword, catching the axe before it could plant itself in his chest for a death blow. Gods, this man―one that followed the Captain of the Royal Guard, who King Arlan had chosen himself― _ truly _ meant to kill him. Did his father know? How could he allow this, the brutal death of his only son?

But then again, didn’t Aerin deserve that? A grisly death for another grisly death, perhaps a light sentence for someone who killed his own brother.

And to add on to that train of thought, Aerin remembered the lesson he had learned not even an hour ago: there was very little that went on in Whitetower that his father did not know about.

Including this.

As Aerin continued to parry the devastating strikes the knight rained down upon him, his arms began to quake. In between the brutal blows and the crushing reality that his own father had seemingly signed off on his death, Aerin was quickly tiring out.

The next swing of the knight’s axe tore Aerin’s sword from his hand. Aerin scrambled back, barely keeping his footing as he tripped over the legs of unconscious guardsmen and expecting to have his head severed from his shoulders any second now. But the gargantuan knight did not strike. Aerin snatched another blade from a fallen soldier and held it up with shaky arms.

The man laughed. “You should hold onto what little honor you have left and accept your fate, prince.”

Aerin slashed with his blade but the knight easily knocked it aside and shoved Aerin back. The knight slowly advanced forward, although he still did not strike Aerin down. It was this and the cruel smirk on the man’s face that helped Aerin put the pieces together. The knight was  _ toying  _ with him. Aerin was only still alive because he served to provide some twisted form of entertainment.

“Surrender,” the knight commanded. 

Aerin heard the sounds of the others fighting around him―heard Mal taunting the kingsmen, Tyril hiss elvish incantations beneath his breath, and Iliana snarl foul words that almost made him smirk.

“No,” Aerin snapped, striking again. The knight slammed his axe down against Aerin’s sword, driving its edge into the dirt as he reached out, backhanding Aerin across the face. He felt blood from his nose trickle over his lips once more and spat, his chest heaving. How long could he keep this up? How long before he stopped being entertaining?

_ “Close your eyes!” _

This time, Aerin did. The backs of his eyelids glowed bright red as Nia’s light illuminated the clearing, blinding soldiers who had not heeded her warning to the party. Aerin hoped his opponent was among those who were temporarily disoriented, but when he opened his eyes, he saw that he was not so fortunate.

“You run from your punishment and you run from your death,” the knight said, lumbering forward. “You are a coward, prince.”

He lifted his axe and Aerin swung up his sword just in time to hold it against the wooden staff of the battle axe, stopping its wicked edge only inches from his chest. Aerin used his free hand and held his palm against the flat of his sword to shove against the axe, gritting his teeth as the edge of his own blade bit into his flesh. His arms trembled, barely able to hold the knight’s weapon where it was. 

Aerin knew that he was not made for battle. His brother was, but not him.

_ Always the diplomat. Trying to talk your way out of your problems. Well, a few fancy words won’t save you in a war,  _ princeling.  _ They won’t save you from the wicked sting of a drakna or the vicious claws of an owlbear. It is best if you learn that lesson now. Draw your sword, Aerin, and fight me. _

Aerin felt the embers in his chest stir once more and he let out a furious cry, a sound he had never heard from himself before as shoved with all his might, thrusting the knight’s axe away from his chest. Aerin swung his sword with a new ferocity, beating back the hulking soldier with quick, precise strikes. He was not built like Baldur nor did he have the same penchant for battle. But he was light on his feet, smart, and outraged.

“I’m not a coward!” he snarled, his grip on his stolen sword unbreakable as the force of his blows reverberated through his arms. At the back of his mind, Aerin knew he could not keep up this energy forever, that whatever strength had come with his fury would soon fade, but he did not need long to finish this.

Next time, when Nia shouted,  _ “CLOSE YOUR EYES!”  _ Aerin was ready.

He squeezed his eyes shut, shielding them with his spare hand as he blindly wove around the battle axe and into the knight’s guard. The moment the light faded, he whipped his arm up, slamming the pommel of his blade against the knight’s helmet. The impact of the blow shot through Aerin’s arms as the monolith of a man fell with a resounding thud, his axe falling harmlessly to the ground.

Aerin stared down at him, panting hard as he wiped blood away from his face with the sleeve of his tunic. He thought he might feel victorious after defeating such a massive opponent while at a great disadvantage, but he only felt anger, frustration, and a feverish flush. This was one of  _ his father’s  _ men. Even if the king had not chosen this knight specifically, he had been ordered by the man his father  _ had  _ handpicked.

Aerin felt something stir in his chest, like a hot wind kissed by flame.

How could his father do this? When Iliana had mentioned that his father asked her to tell Aerin hello for him, Aerin had foolishly let himself believe that perhaps that meant his father cared for him after all. But this… Aerin gazed down at the unconscious knight that had nearly taken his life.  _ This  _ was proof that his father did not care, that whatever he had said to Iliana about him, whatever he had said to Kade over dinner, it was all just an act. And if it  _ wasn’t  _ an act, then they were at most empty words he could not be bothered to  _ act upon. _ Aerin was just like the Nooks and Crannies of Whitetower. Something his father knew about and  _ chose  _ to ignore.

The inside of his chest felt warmer now, like trapped steam from a bath.

_ “Ah!” _

Aerin’s head whipped up from the knight’s unconscious form, his eyes tracking the melee for the owner of that cry. As he searched, Aerin realized how horribly outnumbered they were. During his fight with the royal guardsman, Aerin had not noticed how the tide of the skirmish had turned. As skilled as everyone was, the numbers were too great and it certainly did not help that while they were fighting to disable, the guards were fighting to kill. They were going to lose.

At last, Aerin’s eyes found Iliana amidst the chaos, surrounded by a mound of all of the soldiers she had already taken out on her own. She faced off four guards at once, her face hard and determined. Her clothes were torn in places, specks of blood blossoming on the fabric― _ Why didn’t she have any godsdamned armor? _ But she was otherwise alright. Aerin felt something in him ease slightly and was about to turn back into the skirmish, as hopeless as it might be, when he caught the glint of something silver in the branches of the heartoak tree that loomed at Iliana’s back. Another soldier, poised to strike her down from above.

_ “ILIANA!”  _ Her name was ripped from his throat, tearing it raw as he watched the soldier slip off the branch. He felt something in his chest ignite, heat blazing throughout his entire body like a wildfire. The air around him seemed to pulse, space stretching inward and then exploding out. He reached out as if to stop it, and for a moment, Aerin could have sworn the veins that lined the back of his hands throbbed  _ black. _ He sucked in a sharp breath―

A massive pair of bolas appeared seemingly out of nowhere, wrapping around the soldier as he plummeted and tangling his limbs. He thudded to the ground behind Iliana, blade clattering harmlessly against the heartoak roots. As one, Aerin, Iliana, and the guards surrounding her gazed down at the fallen soldier, then up in bewilderment. Aerin could read the words on her lips.  _ What in the seven hells? _

Her answer came in the form of three short blasts of a horn and a chorus of battle cries. A horde of orcs suddenly burst through the treeline, whooping and hollering as they rushed in, weapons held high, and clashed with the Whitetower soldiers.

“Imtura!” Iliana exclaimed, her face lighting up just as Aerin noticed the ferocious, burgundy-haired orc that led the charge. Iliana reached down, grabbing a fistful of dirt and leaves and flinging it into the eyes of her adversaries. She took advantage of their sudden blindness, smashing her fist into the temple of one, jabbing the throat of another, and hurling the third and fourth together before sprinting to greet the pirate captain in a massive hug. “You came!”

“Course I did! Couldn’t pass up the adventure of a lifetime with you lot!” Imtura grinned, releasing Iliana and twirling her hand axes as she surveyed the scene. “Aren’t these your people?”

Imtura ducked, wrapping her arms around a charging guard and hurling him over her shoulder with admirable ease.

“It’s a long story,” Iliana explained as she sent out a sharp kick to a nearby knight. “They’re just following orders. Try not to kill them!”

“You take the fun out of everything, landrat!” Imtura frowned but sent out the order to her crew nonetheless. “Sorry we got here late. These bilge rats are like a bunch of useless sissies on land.”

“No matter,” Iliana beamed, shoving Imtura’s shoulder with her own. “You’re here now.”

As Iliana dove back into the fray, Aerin shook himself out of his daze, panting hard as the rage gradually drained from his body. He heard a twig snap to his left and whipped his sword up, parrying the blow meant to take off his head. 

“Murderer!” the knight spat and Aerin scowled, recalling his old sword fighting lessons as he twisted his wrist and sent the other man’s blade flying. He flipped his sword in his hand and struck his pommel against the knight’s helmet, knocking him out. 

Aerin blinked, surprised to have handled that as efficiently as he did. He felt something brush against his fingertips and glanced down just in time to see the faintest wisps of shadow disappear into his palms. Aerin’s heart began to race and he rubbed his eyes. Had he just imagined that? No. He knew that what he saw was real.

But what did that mean?

Aerin wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hands and was surprised to find that he truly felt  _ warm.  _ For the first time in months, the ice in his bones had thawed.

“Behind you!”

Aerin whirled just in time to see another soldier sprint towards him, sword raised. “For Prince Baldur!”

Aerin caught the blade with his own and drove it down and to the side. He slammed his foot down on the soldier’s instep, just as he had seen Iliana do, then slipped under his guard and slammed his elbow into their chin.

“Not bad, princeling!” Mal shouted from nearby as he used his daggers to knock all sorts of weapons to the ground and Aerin grimly nodded.

“Landrats!” Imtura bellowed over the sounds of steel clashing. “My crew will take care of this lot! What’s our plan of action? We got a way out?”

“Allow me to take care of that,” Tyril replied, emitting another blast of energy from his palms to clear a circle around him as he shouted some order in elvish. Almost immediately, the drakes soared out of the surrounding heartoak trees, their gold and blue feathers shimmering in the moonlight. One landed before him, another before Mal, and the last swooped low over Iliana. She reached up, grabbing hold of one of the footholds, and then heaved herself up into the saddle.

“Nia, to me!” Tyril called as he mounted his drake, holding a hand out for her. Nia hurled a ball of light at the soldiers nearest to her and held out her arms for Threep, who was terrorizing knights with his claws. He dove into her satchel, which Nia then clutched to her side, bounding towards Tyril.

“Good to see you, Immy!” Mal greeted Imtura as she saddled up behind him. Aerin heard Mal’s grunt of pain as she socked his shoulder.

“Why did I have to get stuck with you?” Imtura grumbled as they took off towards the skies.

“Come along, princeling.” Aerin turned to see Iliana land her drake behind him, a weary smile on her face. She half leaned out of her saddle and stretched out her hand. “Looks like you’re with me.”

Aerin glanced around at the remnants of the skirmish. Imtura’s band of orcs were making quick work of the soldiers, but it would not be long before reinforcements came. He frowned, unsure of which side he was more worried for.

“Everything’s going to be alright, Aerin,” Iliana reassured him, her eyes bright and sincere. “When all of this is over, we’ll come back and set things straight. All of it. I promise.”

Aerin knew she was not just talking about the fight between the orcs and the Whitetower soldiers. The overlooked working-class families of Morella, the forgotten Nooks and Crannies of Whitetower―she meant all of that as well. 

He did not know how she planned to make this vow come true when her last one had guaranteed he would be back in a cell the moment they returned. But for now, he chose to believe her.

Aerin nodded and took her hand, the warmth of her skin seeping through the leather gloves and into his not-so-cold skin as she pulled him up behind her. He startled slightly as she wrapped his arm around her waist, pressing his palm against the edge of her ribcage. 

“Have you ever ridden a drake before?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him as she quickly braided back her hair.

“No,” he admitted, gazing down at the majestic beast in wonder. “Growing up… I always wanted to.”

He could still remember his amazement when Iliana and her party had touched down on the garden terrace after leaving Undermount, riding on the backs of the great creatures he had only ever read about in legends.

“Then this should be fun.” Iliana gave him a mischievous smile that made his stomach swoop as she faced forward once more and gripped the reins. “You might want to hold on.”

“To what― _ woah!” _

Aerin wrapped his other arm around her waist and held on tight as the drake took off and the world tilted sideways. The wind whipped at his face, sifting through his tangled locks and buffeting his clothes. Before long, they burst through the clouds and then leveled out, gliding on gentle air currents.

“By the gods…” Aerin breathed, his grip relaxing by a fraction as he took in the view. Whitetower and the oakheart forest was sprawled out beneath them, gilded in the moonlight. And above… 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Iliana asked, gazing up at the sea of stars that stretched overhead. “There’s nothing quite like it, except perhaps a sunrise. But that’s a different kind of beauty.”

Speechless, Aerin could only nod, his chin lightly brushing the crown of Iliana’s head. In front of them, two other shapes soared―the rest of their party.

“We did it!” Nia cheered, throwing her hands into the air as her long hair flowed behind her like silken ribbons.

“Damn right, we did!” Mal whooped, punching his fist into the air.

As the others cheered and hollered in triumph over their narrow escape, Iliana let out a relieved sigh, humming to herself. Aerin could not help but marvel at how peaceful it was up here, a drastic change to the hectic environment they had just left. After a while, the reality that they were actually safe finally sank in and Aerin felt all of the tension drain from his body, leaving only weariness and a sense of peace.

When a few moments had passed, Iliana spoke up, her voice soft. “For what it’s worth, Aerin, I think you did the right thing today. With that family at the gates.”

Aerin straightened, raising his brows. “You do?”

“I do,” she affirmed, her posture relaxing. Her spine curved against his chest, her body burning like a bonfire against his. Aerin was certain his heart―that damned thing―stuttered in his chest when he realized that with his arms still wrapped around Iliana’s waist, her back pressed to his chest, this was perhaps the closest he had ever been to her. 

“You certainly looked as if you were going to bite my head off,” Aerin replied, recalling how furious she had looked when she hauled him away. Iliana huffed and Aerin felt her ribcage expand beneath his hands. 

“I  _ was _ mad. Mad that you didn’t listen. Mad that you went and got yourself hurt―” Iliana shifted in her seat, twisting so that she could face him. She released her grip on the reins, using only one hand to hold on as she gently brushed her fingers along Aerin’s nose. He winced and Iliana drew back, brows knitting. “Sorry. Does it hurt a lot?”

“Truthfully, I forgot all about it until now,” Aerin confessed with a shrug. He silently cursed himself for flinching, wishing he could still feel her touch.

“That’s probably because of the adrenaline,” Iliana murmured, reaching out once more but hesitating. Aerin did not even need to think twice before he nodded. She laid her fingertips gently over his nose and Aerin felt a pleasant warmth as they began to glow with a silvery light that refracted in her eyes. Almost instantly, breathing through his nose became easier and the pain alleviated to the point of being non-existent. 

Aerin scrunched up his nose, pleased to find that there was not even the slightest ache. “You healed it.”

Iliana shrugged, withdrawing her fingers to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Nia taught me.”

“Well, still.” Aerin dipped his chin gratefully. “Thank you.”

She smiled slightly, then turned to face forward once more. “Consider it my way of apologizing for breaking it back in the Shadow Realm.”

“I believe I may have deserved that,” Aerin admitted, his gaze traveling along the dark horizon.

“Yeah. You did,” Iliana stated and he laughed lightly, genuinely. As soon as the sound was out, he felt Iliana go still beneath his palms.

“It has been a long time since I’ve done that,” he whispered, his heart leaping into his throat.

Several moments passed before Iliana replied, “I’m sorry.”

Aerin only nodded, gazing down at the forest far below them. He was not sure anyone had ever said “sorry” to him for anything before, and yet here she was, apologizing for something she had no control over.

Iliana cleared her throat. “As I was saying earlier… I  _ was _ mad earlier. But not at you. I just… didn’t like seeing you put yourself in danger. But you did the right thing. Your father and brother might have turned the other way, but you never would. And I can’t fault you for that.”

Aerin swallowed past the lump in his throat. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest, so much so that he feared she could feel it. “Iliana…”

“Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this, all things considered,” she said hesitantly, her voice low even though everyone else was too far away to overhear them. “I still think you would have made a wonderful king. You know. If things were different.”

“Oh,” Aerin’s lips parted, his brows lifting as his cheeks flushed. “I… Well… Thank you. But I suppose that there’s no use thinking about that now. It can never happen.”

“No,” Iliana nodded slowly. “I suppose you’re right.”

They rode on in contented silence for a while, simply braving the wind and looking towards the horizon. Aerin’s gaze roamed across the clouds, settling on the dark peaks that erupted from the haze in the distance.

“Iliana,” he murmured, brows knitting. “Where exactly are we going? What is the plan?”

“Yesterday, you said that there’s only one road to the mountains, so that’s where we’ll try and intercept Kade.” He felt her go tense against him at the mention of her brother. And just like that, the spell between them had broken. Iliana straightened, no longer leaning back against his chest as her shoulders became set with a rigid determination. Her voice was grave as she whispered, “Let’s just hope we’re not too late.”


	8. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iliana finds out more information about the Old Gods and Aerin gets a lesson in combat.

The next morning, Iliana woke to the sound of songbirds chirping outside. She held her arms over her head and stretched, eyes half-lidded as she gazed around. She could see the bobbing shadows of branches against the top of her tent, hear the wind rustling through the leaves. Iliana shoved herself to her elbows, rubbing at her bleary eyes with the back of her hand, and yawned.

Beside her, Nia stirred, angling her face out of the pillow just enough to crack one eye open. “Is it time to get up yet?”

Iliana took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke from the dying campfire they had hastily built last night after flying for hours. She could just make out the soft murmur of low voices―two at most―but beyond that, Iliana did not hear much noise outside aside from those that belonged to nature. “I think we still have some time. Go back to sleep.”

Nia nodded groggily and rolled over, tugging her blankets tighter around herself as she slipped back into her dreams. Iliana winced, working through the ache in her muscles as she rolled her shoulders, then ran her fingers through her knotted hair. Although she was glad to be back on the road with her friends once again, she certainly did not miss the sleeping amenities―thin bedrolls, threadbare sheets, and lumpy pillows.

With a sigh, she ran her fingers along all of the tears and bloodstains in her tunic, then pulled it off, swapping it for one of the spare ones in her pack. She really ought to invest in some leather armor at some point. She had lost track of how many tunics she had ruined in skirmishes a while ago. As she pulled her cloak out, a piece of folded parchment fluttered out. Kade’s letter.

Iliana frowned, treating the letter delicately as she unfolded it and re-read her brother’s words, even though she had already memorized every line. 

_ Please hurry back, Iliana. I do not know if I can wait any longer. _

“I’m sorry, Kade,” Iliana murmured beneath her breath, fighting against the burning sensation behind her eyes. “I wasn’t fast enough. But this time, I will be. I promise.”

Iliana flipped the page over, scanning the directions Kade had left behind. Aerin had called it a roadmap… That reminded Iliana of another issue Iliana had yet to process, her dream of the Ash Empire and her new task. This journey was no longer just a quest to find Kade. It was a quest to find the Old Gods. And if they were as dangerous as Aerin claimed they were, well… Iliana prayed that she found Kade before he found  _ them _ . Even if she still had no plan, they were safer together. 

She needed advice.

Iliana peered out of the tent she shared with Nia, squinting against the early morning light. 

“There she is!” 

“Did you sleep well, Iliana?” Tyril asked, resting his elbows on his knees as Iliana emerged from the tent. Imtura and Tyril sat on two stones next to the dying campfire, nursing metal cups as they conversed.

“Could have been better,” Iliana admitted as she wedged herself onto the rock beside Imtura. “Feels like I fell out of the drakna tree and hit every branch on the way down.”

Tyril gave her a wry smile. “Yes, well, that is to be expected. From what Mal told us after you and Nia retired for the night, you had quite an eventful couple of days.” He held up a water skin. “Would you like some elderflower tea? I brought it from home. It’s not warm, but it’s still quite pleasant. It might make you feel better.”

“You can try the lord’s fancy juice, or you can try this.” Imtura grinned, holding her cup out to Iliana. “It’s a Tal Kaelen home remedy. It’s not the tastiest, but it certainly will put the pep in your step.”

Iliana furrowed her brows, glancing between her two companions, although their expressions gave nothing away. She hesitantly took Imtura’s cup and sniffed the contents before instantly recoiling, scrunching up her nose. “That smells vile.”

“I never promised it would be as nice as some fancy Undermount drink, but it’ll do the job,” Imtura shrugged, using her knuckle to push to cup up to Iliana’s lips.

Iliana barely got down a mouthful of the pungent liquid before she choked, jerking back and cringing as her insides burned. She coughed, spluttering as she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, eyes watering. “Imtura, that’s just orcish bourbon!,” she wheezed, spitting into the grass. “It’s hardly even sunrise!”

“Woke you right up, didn’t it?” Imtura laughed heartily, slapping Iliana’s back.

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” Iliana ground out, wiping at her eyes before handing Imtura’s mug back. She held out her own to Tyril. “I’ll take the tea, please.”

“So. A prison break, huh?” Imtura asked as Iliana gulped down the fragrant liquid. “Hells, if I’d have known you were going to break into the palace dungeon, I would have come sooner!” she admitted, clapping Iliana on the shoulder. “Sounds like a riot, landrat. I’m impressed. Although I still don’t understand why  _ he _ was the one you broke out.”

Iliana followed Imtura’s gaze to the other side of the campfire, where Aerin was sprawled out on a bedroll, lost in a deep sleep. She frowned. That could not have been comfortable, sleeping out in the elements. “I thought he was sleeping in Mal’s tent.”

“He was,” Tyril answered as he filled her cup once more and then tucked his skin of tea away. “But during my watch, he came out and said he needed to think. He sat there all night until he fell asleep.”

Iliana tilted her head, studying his slumbering form. When they had landed the night before and set up camp, he had been so quiet. Iliana had just assumed it was because of his exhaustion, but… She thought back to the skirmish at the border, remembering how appalled he had been when he realized how corrupt the Whitetower guards had been. As she replayed the events of last night, Iliana even recalled glimpsing him engaged in a conversation with a hulking soldier whom he had fought for quite some time. She wondered if that had anything to do with his restlessness.

“He didn’t say anything?” she asked.

“Not a word.” 

Iliana pressed her lips together, making a mental note to check in with him later before she turned to Imtura. “I know working with him is not ideal, and I don’t expect any of us to forgive him for what he’s done,” she said, picking her words carefully. “But he’s a valuable asset. Apparently he and Kade spoke often over the last few months and Aerin knows more about the realms than any of us. He will be useful in deciphering Kade’s directions.”

“Directions?” Tyril and Imtura echoed in unison.

Iliana nodded, withdrawing Kade’s letter from the inside of her cloak and unfolding it. Her companions leaned in, peering over her shoulder to read the stanzas Kade has hastily written.

“Ah,” Tyril nodded, sitting back with his arms crossed. “So that is why we are heading for the mountains. Hopefully, we will not need to go into the poison fields as Nia mentioned.”

“Looks like a bunch of nonsense to me,” Imtura muttered, shrugging.

“I was in the same boat, Imtura,” Iliana admitted, delicately folding the letter away. “That’s why Aerin’s good to have along.”

“And he is worthy of your trust?” Tyril questioned and Iliana glanced over to find that he was staring at the prince, face impassive although his gaze was sharp and assessing.

“That remains to be seen,” she sighed, leaning against Imtura’s shoulder. “Although as of right now, I have no reason to doubt him.”

“Except for our past with him,” Imtura added and Iliana nodded wearily.

“Yes. Except for our past,” she agreed, even as her chest tightened. The three of them sat together, simply listening to the sounds of the forest as they silently considered their new travel companion.

“Well, I’m glad you are alright, Iliana,” Tyril said after a short while had passed. “We were worried when you and Kadara did not return from Riverbend. I suppose this whole mess had something to do with that?”

Iliana exhaled heavily, bracing her forearms on her knees as she nodded. “Yes. I was on my way back when I had these… feelings, but they weren’t my own. I felt afraid. Anxious. I don’t know how, but I knew they were Kade’s emotions.” She paused, rubbing her temples. “Is that… normal?”

“Doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard before.” Imtura frowned, taking a long pull. “What about you, Tyril?”

“I agree that it’s not normal,” Tyril said slowly, his face drawn and pensive. “But connections like that are not exactly… unheard of.”

“What do you mean?”

“I cannot say what it is like for humans, but amongst elves, those that share a deep emotional connection, Kilvali―or even some siblings―can sometimes perceive the emotions of their partner while they are in the same room,” Tyril explained, balancing his mug on his knee as he folded his arms across his chest. “But it is more likely this comes from simply knowing one another well enough to use cues or intuition to identify emotions.”

“But I wasn’t anywhere near Kade,” Iliana added, anxiously wringing her fingers together. When she glanced down, she saw that she was toying with Aerin’s ring again and dropped her hands. She  _ really  _ ought to put the glittering thing away before someone asked why she still had it. “And I didn’t just identify his emotions, I  _ felt  _ them. And they were really strong.”

Tyril’s lips pressed into a grim line as his eyes darkened. “Then I do not know. Some of the more spiritual elves of Whitetower might suggest that there are greater powers at play.”

Iliana stiffened, her heart skipping in her chest. “Like the gods?” 

“Perhaps.” Tyril shifted, his gaze scrutinizing as he studied her. He stood, setting aside his belongings and stretching his legs. “I am going to go for a walk. You two are more than welcome to join me.”

“I’ll stay right here,” Imtura decided, nodding her head in the direction of Aerin’s sleeping form. “Keep an eye on the dark prince in case he tries anything.”

Iliana wanted to assure them that they did not have to worry about Aerin, but fearing that she only believed that because she was no longer objective, she held her tongue. “I’ll go with you, Tyril,” she announced, setting her mug down and following Tyril deeper into the forest. “I need to ask you about something.”

“What is it?”

“The Old Gods,” she began once they were a fair distance away from the copse of woods where they made camp. “The elves worship six of them… but what are they?  _ Who _ are they?”

Tyril held a low-hanging branch aside, stepping back to allow Iliana to pass first. “Is this about your brother’s quest?”

Iliana frowned, gazing down at the ground as she chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I’m afraid it’s about ours,” she admitted, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, carefully gauging his reaction. “Something’s coming, Tyril. And we need the Old Gods to stop it.”

Tyril stilled, paling at her ominous declaration. Iliana paused, turning to meet his gaze as he said quietly, “Tell me everything you know.”

And so Iliana did. She told him about Kade’s sudden fascination with the Old Gods, the dream she had all those months ago, the dream she had the other night. She told him about the mysterious figure that had claimed to belong to a secret society of watchers, the Ash Empire, a possible future in which Whitetower was in ruins, and the horrible, monstrous, fire-breathing beast she had seen. As she spoke, she watched as Tyril seemed to grow paler by the second, his expression darkening further.

When Iliana finally finished, he swore lowly in elvish. “And so it seems that our work protecting the Realm is not yet finished.”

“So, you believe me?” Iliana asked dubiously. “You don’t just think that I’m going insane?”

That, at least, earned her a small smirk. “Of all the things that have happened to us, your visions are the least absurd. And you have earned my trust many times over, Iliana. That is why I will follow your lead in how we deal with the Valleros prince, and why I believe you now.”

Iliana smiled tentatively. “Thank you.”

“Mm. So the Old Gods,” Tyril began, folding his arms as he leaned back against a tree. “You hope to find them and Kade on this quest.”

“Preferably Kade first before he gets himself hurt, but yes,” Iliana nodded, leaning her shoulder against the trunk beside him. “Tell me about the Gods.”

“Truthfully, there is not much to tell,” Tyril admitted, his brows furrowing. “We know less about the Old Gods than we do about the New. The details are varied and vague. In ancient times, when magic flowed freely through the realm, they wielded it with tremendous skill. It made them at once great and terrible.”

Iliana frowned. “What were they? Elves? Orcs?”

“Neither,” Tyril answered simply. “Elves, orcs, and humans did not yet exist. I believe they must have been a shared ancestor of all our species.”

“What made them special?” Iliana asked and a small, whimsical smile graced Tyril’s lips.

“Their beasts,” he breathed, eyes shining with wonder. 

“...Beasts?”

“Yes.” Tyril nodded, tilting his head back to gaze up at canopy overhead, the shadows of rustling leaves swaying across his face. “Each god was said to ride a magnificent beast, each of which had its own domain. The Great Serpent, the Mother Bear, the White Wolf, the Red Phoenix, the Horned Bull, and the Sky Dragon. Although, I have heard some even say that the beasts themselves were the gods. But alas, we will never know the truth.” 

“We will when we find them,” Iliana asserted.

“ _ When _ not  _ if, _ hm?” Tyril smiled lightly. 

“We don’t have a choice,” Iliana said gravely. “If the Ash Empire is coming for us, we need to be prepared. I’ve already waited long enough. I should have acted the moment I had the first dream.”

“That reminds me.” He glanced over at her, lips thinning. “Your vision. The way you described that creature… It sounds as if you saw the dragon.”

“Dragon,” Iliana echoed, tasting the word for the first time. She had never heard of dragons, even in all of Kade’s stories. “Do you think that perhaps the god who rode Sky Dragon is the one we’re meant to find?”

“I cannot say.” Tyril pushed away from the tree, gesturing for her to follow. “Dreams, premonitions… they are often difficult to understand, even when they seem straightforward.”

“And what do you think about the robed figure? Who do you think they were?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea,” Tyril confessed, sighing heavily as he pushed a hand through his hair. “I have never heard of anything like it. Whoever they are, they seem to want to help, although I cannot figure out how they came to you from this ‘space in between.’ It is possible that your brother had a similar calling to spur you into action.”

Iliana’s brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

“Well, anyone who knows you knows that you love Kade dearly,” Tyril reasoned, expression calculating. “You would do anything to keep him safe. Perhaps they knew that the only way to get you to act was if Kade got involved. Perhaps they were responsible for the bridging of your emotions.”

“So he’s a pawn?” Iliana asked, an edge creeping into her voice. “How do they know that I won’t return to Whitetower the moment I find my brother? How do they know I will even bother continuing his search for these Gods?”

Tyril raised an eyebrow. “Will you?”

“Of course!” she groaned, rubbing her temples as pressure began to build in her sinuses. “I have to. The fate of Morella may very well depend on it.”

Tyril gave her a knowing look. “That’s the thing about you. It’s in your nature to protect people. To do what’s right. Whoever this watcher person is, they knew that about you.”

Iliana frowned but merely nodded in response, silently mulling all of this information over as they began to make their way back to camp. It was unsettling, to have some strange, faceless being know so much about her. And it was infuriating to realize that they were using her own brother to manipulate her into action. 

But perhaps that simply meant things were especially dire. 

Iliana suppressed a shudder and wondered, not for the first time, what exactly she was getting herself and all of her friends into. 

* * *

When Aerin awoke, it was just him and the orc princess, Imtura Tal Kaelen. He groggily pushed himself to a seated position, tenderly rubbing at a sore spot in his shoulder. He must have slept on a rock.

“Rough night, princeling?” Imtura asked from her perch on the rock.

He wordlessly nodded, plucking a brittle leaf from his hair as he glanced around, eyes searching―Aerin stopped himself. He knew who he was subconsciously looking for, knew that he  _ shouldn’t  _ be searching. When had it become second nature for him to seek her out?

They had shared a moment last night after their escape from Whitetower. A moment in which Aerin felt that they had come to some sort of truce, had found peace and understanding with each other.

_ Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this, all things considered… I still think you would have made a wonderful king. You know. If things were different. _

But that was the problem. Things weren’t different. He could not go back and change the past or right his wrongs. In fact, Aerin still could not pinpoint the exact moment he had gone past the point of no return, when his heart had hardened and his jealousy had transformed into the dark vicious creature it was. He had started falling long before he assembled the Onyx Shards and had done the unthinkable―committed the crime he still could not face, even after all these months. 

Where had he first gone wrong? Was it the first time he had listened to the Onyx Shard and learned that the Dreadlord of legend was speaking into his mind? Or the second time, when he knew that it was the Dreadlord who called to him, but still listened anyway?

“You look like you’re about to blow your cap,” Imtura said, her golden eyes studying him carefully. She beckoned him forth with a large hand and held up a mug. “Take this. It ought to make you feel better.”

Aerin got to his feet, eyeing the cup as discreetly as possible just in case his suspicion might offend her. “What is it?”

“Bourbon,” Imtura replied honestly as he approached. “You and I aren’t flying those drakes and we’ve got a long day of traveling ahead of us. Might as well make it a little more bearable.”

Aerin was not fond of drinking, but he could not argue with that logic nor could he deny that he could certainly use something to dull his mind. He nodded appreciatively. “Thank you.”

The moment his fingers wrapped around the cup, Imtura shot to her feet, grabbing him by the front of his tunic and lifting him off his feet. The cup clattered to the ground, dark liquid spilling across Imtura’s leather boots, although she did not seem to mind in the slightest. “Don’t thank me yet, prince,” she spat, holding his face menacingly close to hers. “You and I need to have a heart to heart.”

Aerin’s eyes narrowed and he exhaled sharply through his nose. He should have seen this one coming. He knew his lukewarm reception from Iliana’s friends would not be universal. “Of course we do.”

“I get that you’re here because Iliana thinks you can help us find her brother.” Imtura’s fingers tightened in his shirt, hefting him higher. “And maybe you can. But don’t think we’ve forgotten how you betrayed us all. I don’t like you, not one bit. And you don’t have to like me, either. But it looks like we’re stuck with each other and we gotta find a way to deal.”

“So, what do you want from me? What will it take for you to  _ put me down?”  _ Aerin huffed, hands balling into fists at his side although he did not dare touch the orc captain. As irritated as he was, he knew her reaction was justified and well-deserved.

“What do I want from you?” Imtura repeated, her voice a husky snarl. Up close, Aerin could see the furious twist of her lips, the gleaming points of her sharp teeth. “Just your word, lad. Give me your word that you won’t harm any of us, that you won’t turn traitor like you did before.”

“My word?” he echoed, shaking his head in confusion. “And what is my word to you? Promises are hardly assurances.”

Distantly, Aerin realized he should probably keep his mouth shut and do whatever she asked, regardless of what little sense it made, but his training in courtly politics was harder to override than he would have originally thought. From a young age, he had learned that promises meant nothing without actions or collateral to back it up and if one did not take care to outline all specificities in their agreements, they left room for trickery.

“Maybe for you fancy conniving folk, they aren’t. But to my people, they’re everything,” Imtura replied vehemently. She lowered him to the ground but did not release her hold on him. “We don’t make promises we don’t plan on keeping, or take pledges we won’t uphold. You can call us brutes and think we are uncivilized. That’s all fine. But you can never say we are dishonest.”

“Admirable,” Aerin remarked dryly, regaining his composure as his initial shock at her outburst wore off. “Are all orcs as proud as you?”

That, at least, seemed to amuse Imtura. Her scowl turned into a predator’s smile, lethal and threatening. “Ha! Maybe you aren’t just a spineless little palace rat, after all.” 

She released him, roughly dusting off his shoulders as if she had helped him off the ground. Aerin let her, watching her cautiously. Princess she may be, but Aerin could certainly say that Imtura was nothing like the noble ladies at court―being an orc had nothing to do with it.

“So,” Imtura stated, leveling him with an intense stare. “Do I have your word, prince?”

“Yes.” It was not even a question. He knew better than to bite the hand that fed him, to betray the people who had broken him out of his cell, even if it was for ulterior motives. And there was also the fact that Kade’s life was on the line. But even if it weren’t for all of that, Aerin did not  _ want _ to turn on them. As odd and disagreeable his new travel companions could be at times, they were at least good folk. He had certainly tangled with more unsavory people before.

“You have my word,” Aerin stated earnestly, holding Imtura’s golden gaze. “I will not bring harm to a single one of you. And I will not betray you again. I swear it.”

Imtura stared down at him, eyes blazing with an unmatched intensity. After a long moment passed, she crouched retrieving Aerin’s tin cup from the ground. She filled it with the amber contents of her canteen, then handed it over. “Good. Then we have an accord.”

_ Hmph. Spoken like a diplomat.  _ Aerin nodded, taking the cup. “Indeed, my lady.”

Imtura’s brow furrowed, her lips twisting as if she could not decide whether she despised the title or approved of it. Eventually, she huffed and shook her head, sitting down. “Careful with that stuff. It’ll burn.”

Aerin hummed his confirmation and turned, settling down on the large stone adjacent to Imtura as he drank. Aerin stifled a cough into his elbow, his stomach immediately alighting with fire. “Oh, that’s―”

“Awful?” Imtura supplied with a mischievous grin. “Don’t worry. Iliana said something similar earlier.”

Despite himself, Aerin straightened. So she was awake, then. He was about to ask where she had gone when he heard footsteps nearby and twigs snapping underfoot. He turned just in time to see Iliana and Tyril emerge from the surrounding woods. Instantly, Aerin noted their tense expressions and frowned, glancing away. He stared down at his boots and drank, even as it scorched his throat.

“You’re back,” Imtura stated, shifting around. “Should we start packing up?”

“As much as I want to move on, no,” Iliana said wearily and Aerin imagined she was running her fingers through her long dark hair. “We’ll give Mal and Nia another hour to rest.” He heard her footsteps nearby, then she sighed. “Imtura, please tell me you didn’t trick Aerin into drinking that poison.”

“Actually, the prince accepted it fully knowing what it was,” Imtura countered and Aerin could tell the orc captain was grinning.

Before Aerin could drink again, his tin cup was plucked from his hands, its contents tossed into the dregs of last night’s fire. Iliana kicked his boot, her voice even. “Come. I’m going to teach you how to fight.”

Aerin looked up at her, brow furrowing. “I know how to fight.”

“You know how to fight like a prince, which isn’t fighting at all. You handled yourself well enough at the skirmish outside of Whitetower, but you and I both know it was a close thing.” She nudged his foot again. “Come. If you’re going to be traveling with us, you need to know how to fight. For real.”

“I don’t have a sword anymore. I dropped it before we escaped on the drakes.”

“Lucky for you, I still have my old one,” she replied flatly, turning to retrieve her belongings from her tent and leaving Aerin no choice but to follow. She handed him her old sword, still in its scabbard, and kept the Blade of Sol for herself. “Try not to lose that one. I invested a lot of coin in turning that piece of junk into an actual weapon.”

Aerin rolled his eyes. “I’ll try not to.”

Iliana simply shot him a sharp look, then led him out of the clearing and into the forest, calling over her shoulder that they would be back in an hour. Well, whatever truce they had reached last night was clearly over.

“You’re in a mood,” Aerin remarked, studying the rigid set of her jaw and the sharp angle of her brows, although admittedly, he was not exactly feeling so chipper himself after that conversation with Imtura and his restless sleep. He thought back to how stressed she looked when she returned with Tyril. “Lover’s spat?”

“Excuse me?” Iliana’s steps faltered and she whirled on him, eyes wide. For a moment, Aerin thought she was about to snap at him, but she looked more startled than angry. She waved her hand at her chest, lips parted. Then she snorted, clapping her palm over her mouth. “You think me and Tyril…? Oh, you’re  _ funny, _ princeling.”

Immediately, Aerin felt his cheeks flush. He recalled their warm reunion last night, the familiarity with which they regarded each other. “You two are close, are you not? You were visiting his home in Undermount before you returned to Whitetower.”

“Yeah, and before that, I was visiting Imtura,” she laughed, continuing on through the forest. “And in case you’re wondering, she and I are not together either. Same with Mal and Nia.”

“Oh, well. That’s…” He was about to say  _ good  _ but quickly stopped himself. What did it matter to him, whether Iliana was with any of the others? He shrugged indifferently, although he felt a weight he did not know he carried lift from his shoulders. “Oh.”

“Hm.” Iliana merely replied, and they said no more on the topic. Before long, they came to another clearing, not as large as the one they camped in, but spacious enough for sparring. She slid her sword from its sheath and tossed the scabbard aside, then unclasped her cloak and dropped it to her feet. “Alright. Show me what you can do.”

_ Let us see if you have learned anything worthwhile in those lessons. I’ve heard that Master Syrio is not as keen and quick as he used to be. I could show you a few things myself. _

As he unsheathed the blade she had given him, Aerin scrutinized her, expecting her to spring a trap upon him at any moment. “You want me to charge you?”

“I’m asking you to show me anything you know, Aerin,” she replied, holding up her blade in a casual grip. “Anything. I know you know something, otherwise, you would not have survived last night.”

He stared at her for a few moments longer, then lunged, stabbing toward her shoulder, but she was already moving, boots scraping across the dirt as she dodged. Aerin exhaled, shuffling his feet to follow as he rotated his wrist and swung low. Again, she danced out of the way, light as a feather. And so they went, Aerin lunging and striking as Iliana wove around his thrusts, never once lifting her blade to parry his attacks. 

Before long, Aerin began to get frustrated, feeling a bit ridiculous at this fruitless dance of theirs. He was about to withdraw and demand how he was supposed to be learning from this when Iliana spun under his blade and into his guard. She hooked her foot around his ankle and tugged, sending him stumbling backward. Aerin inhaled sharply as his stomach swooped, anticipating the impact of his back with the ground when Iliana reached out and grasped his forearm, holding him up.

Aerin met her gaze, fingers instinctively wrapping around her arm as he steadied himself. He was relieved to see that there was some color high on her cheeks and her breath was slightly uneven. Good. He was not the only one, then.

“Well?” he asked when she released him and stepped back. Instantly, he felt the absence of her warmth against his skin, not because he was cold, but because it was… nice.

“You know how to strike,” Iliana observed, planting her sword in the ground as she tied back her long hair. “But the way you move is stiff. You need to move your feet more. Look―you’ve hardly moved from your spot.”

Aerin looked down and noticed for the first time that there was a near-perfect circle of flattened grass made by Iliana’s footsteps, and he stood at the center.  _ Oh.  _ Aerin swallowed, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I don’t usually―”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said simply, her voice almost kind. “This is just training, remember? The point is to get better, not to feel bad about mistakes.”

Aerin raised his brows at that. That was… he did not know what that was, or why it made some of the tension seep from his shoulders. He nodded, lifting his blade and ready to start again. “Why didn’t you ever lift your blade to fight back?”

“I told you that I wanted you to show me what you can do, so I was observing,” she explained with a shrug as she flipped her hand. “But I think I’ve got you figured out now.”

Before Aerin could ask what she meant by that, she rushed him, blade held high. Aerin sucked in a sharp breath, lifting his sword horizontally to block her strike over his head. Iliana bore down on his blade, forcing him to take one step back, then another. Aerin grit his teeth, refusing to budge anymore when he saw her gaze drop to the ground.

Then he remembered.  _ Move your feet. _

Aerin quickly back-stepped, lowering his blade so hers sliced through the space he had been standing, just as Iliana swept her foot out to catch his, and missed.

She grinned. “Good.”

Aerin felt his lips begin to curve, but then she ran at him again, this time aiming to slice across his midsection. He danced back, then spun sideways as she swung again. Aerin rose his blade, shifting to strike back, but Iliana did not give him the time nor the opening to do so. He could either risk catching her blade while trying to attack, or he could keep dodging and forget about using his sword.

_ Show me what you can do. _

Aerin thought back to how Iliana had fluidly moved around his blade, never once lifting her own to counter. When he saw an opening, Aerin did not take it. Instead, he focused on her sword and even allowed himself a smug smile when she shifted her body and angled her blade down towards the opening she had left him. A trap then.

“Good.” Iliana pulled back, offering up a proud smile. “You learn fast.”

“I try,” Aerin replied before immediately going on the offense. He caught the surprised expression that briefly flitted across her face before she smirked. Aerin attacked with a flurry of strikes, backing Iliana towards the edge of the clearing until she held her ground and caught his sword and shoved, pushing him back.

“Good,” she breathed, nodding at him. “Again.”

With a harsh clang, their two swords met, both of them striking and parrying in an elaborate dance whose steps had no name. Aerin’s lessons in ballroom dancing had been his least favorite growing up, but they all came rushing back now. He found the beat in their movements, letting his body react on its own accord.

He countered Iliana’s strike and pressed against her blade, pitting his strength against hers. He met her gaze over their crossed swords and she raised her brow at him before twisting her wrist, sliding her blade beneath his and maneuvering it to disarm him.

“Good,” Iliana huffed, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes as she rotated her wrist and waited for him to retrieve his sword. “Again.”

She charged, bringing her sword down in a wide, sweeping arc, and this time, Aerin was ready. He caught her blade with his, shifting his feet to spin away, kicking up dust and leaves as he went. Iliana followed, slashing high and low with brutal efficiency. As he parried and thrusted, Aerin tried to match her fighting style to one of the many his sword-fighting master, Syrio, had taught him, but he couldn’t place it. It was if she utilized a blend of several different techniques from regions all across Morella. 

Aerin was so caught up in the way she moved, that he failed to see the big picture. He should have seen through the ruse as she feinted left, goading him into lunging, before spinning under his guard and planting her shoulder in his chest. Aerin stumbled back, tripping over a gnarled tree root. His back hit the ground with a thud, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. The point of her sword lay against his chest.

“You let yourself get distracted,” she noted, her cheeks flushed violet as she gazed down at him. “And it made you sloppy. You should have seen that move coming long before I made it.”

“The way you fight,” Aerin breathed. “What style is it?”

Her brow furrowed and she lifted her sword, letting her arm fall to her side. “My style?”

“The way you hold your sword,” Aerin observed, gesturing to her right hand as he pushed himself up to his elbow, “is like the nomads of the plains. But your fighting stance, the way you position your feet, is like the sailors of the Shimmering Isles. Good for keeping your balance on a bobbing vessel.”

“Well, I had many teachers.” She shrugged, pursing her lips. “Mercenaries, adventurers, soldiers. When I was younger, I asked anyone who passed through with a sword in Riverbend to teach me what they knew.”

“Did you have to do that with your bow?” 

“Archery came more easily. Elven perception and all.” Iliana shook her head, stepping back. “You should be more focused on fighting me than the way I fight.”

“But isn’t that important?” Aerin questioned as he got to his feet, dusting off his clothes. “By understanding how you fight, I know the best way to counter it.”

“Maybe that works in duels, princeling, but not in the real world.” Iliana held up her blade, the light refracting off its razor-sharp edge as she studied it. “My fighting style is survival. Everything you just said about my technique, I never knew any of that. I just use everything I have in order to make sure I don’t get skewered. Maybe that’s your problem.” She tilted her head, giving him an assessing glance. “You treat sword fighting like chess. I treat every battle like I’m fighting for my life.”

“Even just now?” Aerin asked.

“Dialed back a bit, but yes.” Iliana nodded. “Even now.”

Aerin did not know why that made his chest ache ever so slightly. “Why?”

Iliana brows drew together as if she found his question to be confounding. “Because it’s the only way I know how to. I didn’t learn to fight for fun or to win glory by killing creatures. I did it to protect myself. From strangers, thugs, creepy men…”

Aerin frowned. “You had a lot of rabble in Riverbend?”

Iliana shrugged again, dragging the tip of her sword through the dirt. “Not that much. But there were a few bullies who didn’t take kindly to outcasts like me.”

Aerin stepped closer, unable to bear the forlorn expression that suddenly took residence in her face. For a wild second, he even considered taking her hand. 

“I think I know what that feels like,” he said softly and Iliana looked up, brows raised. Aerin shrugged and let his gaze fall to his boots, even though that was something his teachers always chided him for. “Back at the palace, I always felt like a bit of an outsider. I didn’t care about hunting for trophies or scheming for political power. All the nobles my age were friends with Baldur. Anyone who associated with me only did so to get closer to the royal family.” 

“Even my mother stayed away,” Aerin continued, toeing his boot into the dirt. “She is just as reclusive as I was, hiding away in her rooms after long days of politicking and entertaining her court.” He huffed mirthlessly. “Although at least she ignored me and Baldur equally.”

Aerin looked up, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment. “I mean, I wasn’t an elf in the middle of a town of humans. I cannot even imagine how―I wasn’t trying to―”

“It’s okay, Aerin,” Iliana assured him, her emerald gaze roaming across her face. There was something warm in her eyes, something that made him want to fall right into her and never get up. “I see where you are coming from.”

_ Yes, _ Aerin thought.  _ You always have. _

“I think…” Iliana said softly, almost sadly, as she glanced down at her feet, frowning slightly. “That I would have liked to know you. When you were younger. Maybe things…”

“Would have been different?” Aerin supplied. Iliana met his gaze, then nodded slowly. 

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Maybe everything would have.”

Aerin did not know what to say to that.

A heavy silence fell between them as they both let the possibilities of everything that could have been sink in, punctuated only by the chirping birds in the surrounding glen. After a few long moments passed, Iliana stepped back and lifted her sword. There was a challenge in her gaze as she demanded, “Again.”


	9. Fight or Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Frostwhisper Mountains of Vishanti, a new trouble awaits.

“Do you see anything?” Iliana shouted over the howling wind, her long braid snapping like a whip behind her. She squinted, barely able to make out the narrow path that wound through the mountain kingdom of Vishanti in the dying light of the setting sun. Tears slipped free of the corners of her eyes, irritated by the harsh elements and the strain of searching for so long for any sign of Kade in the frozen landscape below. 

On the backs of their drakes, Iliana and her companions swept between the snow-blasted peaks of the Frostwhisper Mountains, gliding on the wicked winds that streamed between the jagged outcroppings of granite and narrow valleys. Perhaps if they were here under different circumstances and she had warmer clothes to shield her from the brutal cold, Iliana would have considered this entire flight through the mountain pass to be exhilarating. 

The wind, while wild and untamed, caressed her frost-kissed cheeks and sang to her, whispering of its currents and all of the faraway places it had been. It felt almost natural―liberating, even, to be here above the mist, as if being up here freed her from shackles she never knew she had. How had she ever been content with spending her entire life on the ground, never knowing what it was like to breathe above the clouds?

“Nothing over here!” Nia responded from where she flew up ahead with Imtura.

“Same here!” Mal called from the back of Tyril’s drake.

“Damn it,” Iliana muttered, readjusting her grip on Aerin’s waist as she leaned further over the edge of their drake, staring down at the lethal drop below. “Where are you?”

“Lean any further and you’re going to fall,” Aerin cautioned her, shooting her a reproachful glance over his shoulder.

Iliana scowled but leaned back in the saddle nonetheless, contenting herself with only hanging over at her waist as she continued to scour the mountain pass.  _ Where are you?  _ she thought again, desperately this time. Kade had to be somewhere in these mountains. They had not spotted him anywhere on the road that crossed Morella’s northern border into the Frostwhisper Mountains, and if he was not here then he must be beyond. In the poison fields.

Iliana shivered, but not from the cold.

“Iliana, it’s getting dark!” Tyril yelled, pulling back on the reins to guide his great winged beast to glide alongside hers. “The drakes are getting tired and temperatures will plummet after night falls! We should start looking for a flat place to set up camp!”

“Just a little while longer!” she insisted, even though she knew it was pointless. “One more sweep, then we go!”

Tyril looked as if he wanted to debate but ultimately nodded, tugging the reins and soaring in a wide arc to the right. 

“Iliana…” Aerin began and she flinched, hating the pitying note that surfaced in his voice.

“Don’t,” she rasped, her throat suddenly tight as her frustration rose. “Please, don’t. Just one more sweep and then we can be done for the night.”

Iliana felt his diaphragm swell beneath her arms as he sighed. “One more sweep.”

But their next run over the first portion of the mountain pass yielded no reward. Iliana watched with her heart in her throat as her friends up ahead began to circle back toward her. No.  _ No. _

“We need to find a place to camp,” Tyril informed her as he and Mal flew by, his tone apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

“Iliana, we’ll start looking again first thing in the morning,” Aerin promised her as he steered them in a wide-sweeping arc, turning back the way they came. “There’s still so much of the pass we have yet to cover. Your brother is smart. If he’s in the Frostwhisper Mountains, he will have stopped for the night.”

“It’s the  _ ‘if’ _ part that I’m worried about,” Iliana murmured, taking one last glance at the snow-blasted road below before she leaned forward, resting her cheek against the back of Aerin’s shoulder, unable to muster the strength to even sit up straight. She was distantly aware of the cautioning voice that told her she should keep her distance with him, emotionally and physically, that insisted that being around him should not be so easy. But Iliana simply could not bring herself to care anymore, at least not right now.

She felt Aerin shift, sensing his gaze as he glanced back at her, but he did not comment or shake her off. She heard him clear his throat. “Have you ever heard of the Vishanti wolves?”

Iliana frowned, shaking her head. She knew very little about the lands and people outside of Morella. “No.”

“They’re great wolves that roam the Frostwhisper Mountains,” Aerin said, his voice low and almost silken, as if he were telling a story. “They have thick coats that look as if they were spun of moonlight, fangs as sharp as knives, and claws that can cut through anything.”

Iliana lifted her head to glare at his side profile. “Somehow, princeling, that does not make me feel better, knowing those beasts are down there with my brother.”

Aerin huffed a laugh. “You needn’t worry about that. The wolves are loyal to the wooly men who rule over these mountains. They’re actually companionable creatures. They only attack if provoked or ordered. Their primary task is to guard the kingdom and protect its people.” He shrugged earnestly. “Truthfully, we could consider ourselves lucky if the wolves found Kade. Perhaps the wooly men will have taken him in.”

“You speak as if you have first-hand experience,” Iliana noted, peering at him curiously.

“That’s because I do,” Aerin admitted, guiding their drake in a long, winding path as he searched the landscape below for a flat place to camp amidst the snow and massive pine trees. “When I was younger, my family and I visited the khan and khatun of Vishanti to celebrate five centuries of peace between our kingdoms. Not that it was much of a celebration. It was a rather miserable affair.”

“Miserable?” Iliana asked. “How so?”

“Oh, it was dreadfully cold. Our boots never dried from all the snow and their castle―which is more like a fortress carved from the mountain itself―was always terribly drafty. Not that the Vishanti minded, of course, because they’re covered in all of that hair. They are even said to be able to slumber in ice for decades but that is beside the point.” Aerin shrugged, brushing some of his windswept hair out of his eyes before continuing. For a moment, Iliana simply marveled at how much he knew, how as he shared these pieces of information, his eyes lit up the same way Kade’s did whenever he told a story.

“As for the celebration dinner, that was boring. You could have dropped a copper on the other side of the castle and heard it from the dining hall with how silent it was. And there were no children to join us, so Baldur and I had to entertain ourselves.” A sudden smile bloomed on Aerin’s lips as his eyes seemed to shine with a distant memory. 

“Actually, while my father was recounting the territory wars between the fiefdoms and how the Lords of Whitetower prevailed, Baldur thought we should sneak outside and play in the snow. It was freezing and wet and I had a horrible fever afterward, but it was certainly the most fun I had on the entire outing.” Aerin laughed lightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he shook his head. “Oh, you should have seen the face he made when I dumped a pile of snow on him! He―”

Aerin broke off suddenly, his face falling. “He… I…”

Iliana watched, her chest tight and aching as Aerin swallowed, his face suddenly pale in the moonlight. In the last few days, they had hardly spoken of Baldur, and if they did, the conversation was brief and tense―a far cry from the way Aerin had just described his memory. She had never heard him speak of Baldur in this light, had never heard him reflect on his childhood with anything other than bitterness and regret.

“It wasn’t all bad, was it?” Iliana asked gently, carefully studying the flurry of emotions that warred across his face.

“No,” Aerin admitted after a few moments, and his voice was so heart-wrenchingly soft, Iliana yearned to do more than just hold onto him for safety. “It wasn’t. And I… I killed him.”

“Aerin…” Iliana had never heard him say it. Admit it. She was not prepared to witness his genuine regret, his  _ pain  _ for the brother he claimed to despise. She had not even expected him to feel any of that at all. But then again, Iliana did not know why she was surprised by this―Aerin always had more depth than he let on.

He swallowed again, vigorously shaking his head as if the motion alone could banish the thoughts from his head. “No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“I think you should have.” Iliana reached around him, laying one of her hands atop his on the reins. There was that voice again, chiding her, urging her to keep her distance, to not get any more involved with him than she already was. 

She had tangled with Aerin once and gotten burned; the betrayal still stung whenever she thought of it. Iliana knew she was supposed to be stronger and wiser now, and in some things she was. But wherever Aerin was concerned, it seemed that nothing about her had changed at all, because despite everything―despite how often she told herself not to―she still cared. Cared about  _ him. _

“We can talk about it if you want,” she offered, subconsciously brushing her thumb along the inside of his wrist. “Once we land and make camp… We can talk.”

Aerin shifted to meet her gaze and the emotion she saw there―the pain, the sorrow, the regret, and the tentative hope―it made her feel weak. Compromised.

“Iliana, I―”

_ “SCATTER!” _

Iliana nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden scream that broke the silence. She whipped her head in Nia and Imtura’s direction because she was certain it had been Imtura who shouted the warning when Aerin suddenly gasped and yanked on the reins, nearly elbowing Iliana in the side. Their drake banked left, narrowly avoiding a dark blur of shadow. No, not shadow. An arrow. Someone had  _ shot at them. _

Iliana sucked in a sharp breath, immediately unslinging the Bow of Gal’dariel from her back and notching an arrow. She scanned the mountains for any sign of their attackers, but could not even tell the shadows from granite.

“What in seven hells?” Mal shouted as more arrows speared through the air. There was a terrible screech from up ahead and Iliana watched in horror as an arrow clipped the wing of Tyril’s drake.

_ “Mal! Tyril!”  _ Iliana screamed, rising up in the saddle to get a clearer view as their drake plummeted, then leveled out far below after a few terrifying seconds. “Holy gods.”

Another volley of arrows peppered the air, this time causing Imtura and Nia to drop. The two other drakes were beating their wings furiously down below, barely able to stay above the treeline.

“Aerin―” Iliana began just as a bright beacon of fire flared to life on an outcropping of rock on the side of the nearest mountain. She could make out the outlines of at least a dozen silhouettes against the flames. The archers. Iliana shifted in her seat, drawing her bowstring tight and aiming at one of the dark figures as she blinked away tears―whether they were from the wind or fear for her friends, Iliana did not know. What she did know, however, was that even with the wind and the distance, she could make the shot. She could perhaps fire off three before they even retaliated. 

Iliana took a deep breath, forcing down her fear and her screaming conscience that would not let her forget how her friends were struggling to stay aloft, as she honed her focus. She used her elven senses and instincts to adjust for the wind and their momentum, then prepared to let her arrow fly.

“Don’t,” Aerin ordered, reaching back and placing his hand atop her arrow, pushing it down. “They revealed themselves on purpose. If they wanted to take us down, they never would have lit that signal. If you fire, they will shoot us out of the sky.”

Iliana turned to him, eyes wide. “So what are you suggesting that we do? Even if we turn and flee, the others are still in range.”

Aerin’s face was grim as he guided their drake to hover in place, facing down the figures on the mountain. “We have to land. We meet them and hope they don’t kill us for it.”

“Aerin―”

“Look,” Aerin urged her, keeping his hand on her bow. “They’ve stopped firing now that we have made no move to leave. It is as you said. Perhaps you and I have a chance to fly out of range, but our companions will not make it. Or we can land and see what they want.”

Iliana pursed her lips, glancing between Aerin, the lit beacon, and her friends, struggling to stay airborne down below. She ground her teeth and nodded. “Fine.”

Aerin steered their drake towards the figures on the mountain as Iliana secured her bow and slid her arrow back into its quiver. Iliana cupped her hands, pressing her knees tightly against the flank of their drake to keep her balance as she closed her eyes, sensing the threads of Light that wove around her, connecting her to everything. A small ember ignited in her palms, growing steadily brighter and warmer until a pillar of Light shot into the sky, flaring bright like a shooting star.

_ To me,  _ Iliana thought, peering down at her friends as she signaled again.  _ To me. _

“Gods,” she heard Aerin breathe, but her attention was on the others, who saw her beacon and haltingly followed them to the mountain. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she murmured to Aerin as she let the light fade and righted herself on the saddle once more.

Aerin merely nodded, his back rigid and jaw clenched. “So do I.”

* * *

This was bad. Really bad.

As Aerin landed their drake, his mind raced with all of the possible ways this encounter could go. Their faces illuminated by the firelight, Aerin saw that the people surrounding him, Iliana, and their drake were indeed the wooly men that ruled Vishanti. Based on his own recollection and all that he had learned in the archives, the people of Vishanti were built like orcs, stoic, reserved, and not necessarily prone to violence. They preferred to keep to themselves and their small communities, far from Morella. But they were fiercely protective and wary of outsiders, and if Aerin and his party were perceived as threats to the kingdom… 

Aerin heard the low murmur of conversation around them. If he strained, he could just pick out snippets of “Morellians” and “spies.”

_ Not good.  _ Not  _ good. _

He felt Iliana’s fingers tighten in the fabric of his cloak as she gazed around at the figures that circled them. They were distinctly humanoid in shape and stature, although they were covered with thick dark hair everywhere except for their stern faces. Several of them held bows, arrows already notched and trained on them.

Aerin reached down and gently squeezed Iliana’s wrist, unfurling her fingers from his clothing. Keeping his gaze trained on the wooly men around them, he kept his voice low so that only she could hear, barely moving his lips. “I need you to follow my lead, Iliana. And whatever you do, do not say my name.”

“What?” she whispered, her fingers fluttering across the back of his hand as he pulled away. “Why?”

That was another issue: his identity. Even if the people and rulers of Vishanti did not know of Aerin’s crimes, the unannounced presence of a Morellian prince would certainly be seen as a threat. The wooly men were notoriously suspicious of outsiders so Aerin’s ancestors had always been careful not to enter the mountain kingdom without warning. Aerin’s appearance now could very well upset the centuries of peace between Morella and Vishanti if he was not careful. At the very least, the Vishanti rulers could hold Aerin and the party until his father’s men came to drag them back to Whitetower.

“Off the beast!” someone ordered, their voice gruff and heavily accented, although Aerin could not discern which Vishanti man had spoken.

“I’ll explain later,” he murmured, then held up his hands in a show of surrender. As he began to dismount, he noted that the ground beneath them was a grimy slush of ice and mud.  _ That could work. _

Aerin let himself slide off the side of the drake, bending his knees and falling forward into the mud with a loud  _ plop! _ Aerin grimaced as his arm sunk into the cold, thick sludge, all the way up to his elbows, and flecks of mud splattered across his face.

“Aer―” Iliana cut herself off abruptly as she remembered his order. She dismounted gracefully beside him. He felt her hand, warm on his back as she crouched beside him. “Are you okay?”

A chorus of snickers went around the circle of wooly men, but Aerin only looked at Iliana as he nodded, pulled his hand free of the slush, and wiped his face with the back of his hand, further dirtying his face. As he heaved himself to his feet, clothes sopping wet and stained, he did the same with his other hand, smearing mud across his forehead. He watched as Iliana’s brows furrowed, then slackened with understanding. He was  _ disguising  _ himself. 

Even though it had been over a decade since he had visited Vishanti and he had grown so much since then, Aerin could not risk his identity being revealed. The mud would do for now, but he would have to find a better solution soon.

The beating of wings tore Aerin’s attention away and together, he and Iliana looked up to find their companions and their wounded drakes landing beside them. Aerin shivered hard as the wind from the drakes’ wings swept over him, further cooling his soaking clothes. He flinched slightly as a weight settled across his shoulders and he glanced over to see Iliana fasten her cloak around his neck. Her clothes were hardly thick enough to keep her warm against the elements, but when Aerin shuddered again, she gave him a look that said,  _ Don’t even try to give it back. _

“What the hell is this?” Imtura snarled as she leaped off the back of her drake, mud splattering everywhere. She unhooked her twin hand axes, snarling as every arrow was suddenly trained on her.

Nia jumped off next, immediately rushing to the injured wing of her drake, her expression at once fearful and sympathetic as she studied the wound.

“Who are these barbarians?” Tyril demanded, drawing the sword at his back in a glittering arc of steel. “You fire upon our mounts and now you point your weapons at us unprovoked?”

“Looks like a bunch of walking furballs, to me,” Mal scowled, nimble fingers reaching for the small blades sheathed at his sides.

_ “Spies!” _ someone yelled from the ring of wooly men, inciting a low, uneasy murmuring.

“Hey, we’re no―”

“Unless you want to start a border war between Morella and Vishanti, I recommend you put those weapons away,” Aerin snapped, as he reached for the belt that held Iliana’s old sword and unfastened it. He slowly held it up for the Vishanti men to see, then tossed it to the feet of the nearest warrior.

“What the rutting hell happened to you?” Mal asked at the same time Imtura growled, “Put our weapons away? So we can die like whelps in the mud?”

“So we don’t get shot down where we stand,” Aerin hissed, jutting his chin toward the arrows that were pointed at them from all sides. He faced the band of warriors, holding his voice even and steady. “This is all a misunderstanding. We mean you no harm. There are no spies among us.”

One of the mountain men to his left grunted and stepped forward. Aerin immediately noted the deft craftsmanship of the man’s longbow, the sturdy but flexible woven armor that covered his torso and shoulders. “No spies?” he echoed, voice deep, his syllables smoother than the Morellian dialect. “Then why have you been circling the skies for hours? No one comes through this pass without our knowledge.”

Beside him, Iliana straightened. “We’re looking for a young man. Did anyone come through this way―”

“Quiet, girl!” the lead warrior ordered, shifting his stance to point his bow at Iliana. “You can explain yourselves later.”

“To who?” Aerin asked, angling his body in front of Iliana’s so that the arrow once again pointed at him.

“To the Khagan.” 

Aerin felt ice creep into his veins. No, the mud certainly would not hold up as a trustworthy disguise for long.

The warrior’s dark eyes narrowed, barely visible beneath his bushy brows. He gestured roughly at the ground. “Weapons! Now!”

Iliana looked to him, her eyes questioning and hesitant.

_ You said I don’t have to trust you, Aerin, but I do. And I don’t. I can’t do that again. You know I can’t. _

Aerin knew he did not deserve her trust. He had no hope of ever gaining it back. He still had not quite figured out her feelings toward him―she was gentle and warm at turns, but cold and unreachable at others. But whatever regard she held him in, Aerin hoped it was good enough to make her believe him, just this once.

Iliana unslung her bow, then her quiver, and set them carefully on the ground. Then she unstrapped the Blade of Sol from where it had been fastened to their drake and retrieved Imtura’s gauntlet from the saddlebag before laying them both down as well.

“Seriously, Iliana?” Tyril asked, face slackening in surprise. The rest of their party regarded her with similar expressions.

“We’re on foreign soil, Tyril,” Iliana rationalized, holding up her hands just as Aerin had done. “This is their domain. It’s best if we comply. Then we can sort this all out with their khagan because we have nothing to hide or worry about.”

Tyril stared at her for a moment, then slowly nodded. “Of course.”

He sheathed his sword and unstrapped his blades, holding them out to the warrior closest to him. Mal looked at him incredulously, then sighed and began to divest himself of his knives. “I guess we’re really doing this, huh?”

“I don’t like this,” Imtura grumbled, shifting her axes into one hand and then flinging them on to the ground. One man stepped forward, retrieving all of the weapons. When he got to Imtura’s axes, he cast her a suspicious look. “What?” she snapped, gold eyes blazing. “I don’t have any more weapons on me, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I promise you, I am deadly enough.”

The wooly man shrugged and moved on to Mal, who innocently held up his hands.

The warrior narrowed his eyes.

“Fine!” Mal scowled, pulling a blade from his boot, then another from beneath his sleeve. When the man still did not continue on, Mal’s grimace deepened and he bent at the waist, and pulled up his pant leg, unstrapping an entire band of blades. Then he did the same with the other leg. “That’s it. I swear. Now move on.”

“Mal the Magnificent,” Iliana muttered under her breath as the warrior continued on to Nia.

“Oh,” she raised her brows, shaking her head. “I don’t… I’m not…”

The man took one look at her, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. Nia frowned and her cheeks, which were already flushed from the cold, darkened as if embarrassed although she needn’t be. Aerin wondered if Nia knew that she could probably take on even the strongest of men without even needing a single knife.

Their drakes were also led away, much to Nia’s dismay as she shouted after the men, pleading with them to let her heal the great beasts first. Aerin looked on with a frown as he wondered if they would be leaving this place on the backs of their drakes, or this was the last they would see of the majestic creatures of legend. But as the drakes disappeared down a narrow mountain pass, Aerin could have sworn he saw a pair of mismatched eyes peer out of one of the saddlebags.  _ Threep. _

Aerin glanced at Nia to find that she was already looking at him, silently urging him not to say a word. He subtly dipped his chin in understanding and turned away. For the first time so far, Aerin was glad to have the nesper around.

“Good,” said the lead warrior once all of their blades were gathered and taken care of. He nodded to his men. “Bind them.”

Aerin stiffened, his heart rate spiking as one of the Vishanti wooly men came towards him, a coarse length of rope held between his hands. Aerin ground his teeth, breathing heavily through his nose as his wrists were bound together once more. It seemed as if no matter where he went, he could not escape his restraints. He felt Iliana’s eyes burning into the side of his temple, willing him to look at her, but he did not. Whether her gaze was pitying or reproachful, he could not meet it.

Instead, Aerin closed his eyes, trying to find some semblance of peace and calm as he felt the rough fibers chafe against his skin and a distinctly claustrophobic feeling began to set in. The rational part of Aerin’s mind reminded him that he was out in the cold mountain air and far from the Whitetower dungeons, but nevertheless, the sudden panic he felt was reminiscent of the anxiety he felt whenever he had to return to his cell after a brief respite to shower or relieve himself.

Aerin felt a sharp tug on his wrists and when he opened his eyes, he saw that another length of rope had been attached to his bindings, connecting him to the rest of his party, forming a long line of prisoners. Aerin looked back at them, feeling a little apologetic for putting them in this position and wondering if he had made the right decision, even though they truly had no other choice. Tyril, who stood behind him, merely regarded him coolly, expression cold. Mal only huffed and looked away. Nia pursed her lips, brows knitting almost solemnly as if she sensed his turmoil. And Imtura, who brought up the rear scowled, her eyes flashing with a warning. Aerin knew without her having to say that she was thinking about their first and only conversation.

Another tug on his wrists forced Aerin to face forward as the wooly men began to lead them off the outcropping of rock they had landed on and along a narrow granite passage that wound through the surrounding forest. As Aerin began to trek on, he met Iliana’s bright emerald gaze.

_ You have my word,  _ he had told Imtura, just that very morning.  _ I will not bring harm to a single one of you. _

Aerin did not know what to make of Iliana’s expression. He could not tell if she supported his decision, despised it, or was indifferent towards it. But as Aerin let his gaze roam over her face, subconsciously committing every lovely detail to memory, he could only hope that he was not about to break his promise.


	10. Out of the Frying Pan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past comes back to bite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: brief mentions of blood and violence

_Aerin was bored._

_He sat upright at the far edge of a long wooden bench that ran alongside the large dining table in the cold, cavernous room that served as the Great Hall of the Vishanti fortress as his father droned on and on about the lengthy history of the Valleros dynasty. His posture was perfect and he retained all of the proper etiquette his tutors had shown him as he primly cut into his roast chicken, careful not to let even a scrap fall onto the table._

_Beside him, his brother slumped over the table with chin cupped in his palm as he idly pushed his food around the plate. Clearly, Baldur did not care about whether the Vishanti rulers saw his poor manners. Although Aerin could not fault his brother for his carelessness this time. Not a single one of the adults gathered in the room paid them any attention as they laboriously trudged through the stalest conversation Aerin had ever heard._

_As he zoned in and out of the conversation, Aerin knew in the back of his mind that he should be paying better attention. Even though he had heard the stories of the fiefdom wars countless times and knew the history of his family like the back of his hand_ , _including the conflicting legends_ . _But he was just so bored._

_Aerin did not know if the Khagan had children his age that could have joined them at dinner. In fact, Aerin certainly had not seen any children in all of the time that had elapsed since he and his family had arrived with their procession. But then again, he could not discern a difference between the young and old wooly men of Vishanti. They all appeared to be the same age, at once ancient and youthful. As Aerin thought this, he paused, his forkful of chicken hovering in the air and peered discreetly at the Khagan, wondering just how old the wooly man was._

_A sudden kick to his leg made Aerin jump in his seat, his fingers nearly dropping his fork in surprise. He looked over to find the cause of his sore shin_ ― _his brother of course_ ― _and sighed, frowning. Aerin was about to turn away again and attempt to focus on his father’s speech when Baldur kicked him again._

_Aerin’s pout deepened and he turned to his brother to quietly snap, “What?”_

_Baldur’s lips curved into a smirk. “Don’t be so sour, brother. I have a proposition. One I think you may like.”_

_“Whatever it is you’re planning, Baldur, I do not want any part of it,” Aerin said stiffly. “You always get me in trouble.”_

_“I do not.”_

_“Do too!” Aerin whisper-yelled, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Remember when you used mother’s dresses to tie a rope and climb out your bedroom window? I got in trouble for that because he said I didn’t try hard enough to stop you! He yelled at me for hours!”_

_“Well, yes. That was unfortunate for you. But I am still going to follow through with my plan, and if you’re going to get in trouble for it, you might as well have some fun along the way, no?” Baldur asked, arching a brow._

_Aerin opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated, glancing over at his father. He sighed. “He_ is _going to blame me, isn’t he?”_

_“You know he is. Simply knowing I’m going to do something but not stopping me makes you complicit,” his brother reasoned before holding up a finger. “Unless, of course, you speak up right now. Tell father I’m up to no good and you won’t get in any trouble.”_

_Aerin frowned. “But you would.”_

_Baldur shrugged. “I’m the Crown Prince,” he said simply, as if that was explanation enough. Aerin supposed it was._

_The seemingly obvious choice would have been to tell on Baldur. Aerin’s father would not punish him and Baldur would finally face some consequences for the things he did. But those were the immediate consequences and Aerin needed to think long term. Aerin knew his brother well and he knew this deal was too good to be true. There was no doubt that Baldur would find some way to get back at him, whether it be by some other harebrained scheme or a beating in the gardens._

_In the end, it came down to this: Aerin was afraid of his father, but he was afraid of Baldur more._

_Aerin contemplated this dilemma as he glanced back and forth between his father and his brother, who simply raised his brows as if to say,_ Well?

_Aerin leaned in with a sigh. “What are you planning to do?”_

_Baldur smiled mischievously, then reached out, plucked Aerin’s fork from his fingers, and dropped it on the ground. Aerin opened his mouth in dismay but before he could speak, Baldur said, “You should probably pick that up, little brother.”_

_Aerin pursed his lips but slid off the edge of the bench, crawling beneath the table to retrieve his dropped silverware. Before he could clamber out from under the table, he felt a boot press between his shoulder blades, holding them there. Aerin scowled, shoving Baldur’s foot away but his brother only did it again, tapping rapidly as if to say,_ Wait.

_Before long, Baldur joined him beneath the table. “I had to make sure they didn’t notice you.” He huffed, offended. “They’re not even paying us any attention.”_

_“Isn’t that what we want?” Aerin asked, his brows knitting. “What are we doing here anyway?”_

_Baldur grinned, turning in the direction opposite where the members of their court sat. “Follow me.”_

_Silently, they crawled beneath the length of the table, listening to the steady, monotone drone of their father’s voice that indicated nothing was amiss. When they reached the table’s edge, they were only a short distance away from the set of double doors that led out of the dining hall._

_Baldur pushed himself to a low crouch and grabbed on to the back of Aerin’s doublet to pull him close. “Quietly and quickly, now,” he urged as they rushed to the ash wood doors._

_Aerin was pretty sure that this had to be the stupidest escape plan Baldur had ever enacted. They had crawled beneath a table and were now lowly running in plain sight, betting everything on their parents and the Vishanti rulers continuing to forget about them._

_Distantly, Aerin wondered if Baldur almost_ wanted _to get caught, just so someone would pay them any notice. It seemed that the Crown Prince was having difficulty not being in the limelight for once, but for Aerin, being ignored was something of a familiar feeling, an old friend._

_Nevertheless, they reached the doors without any complications, which prompted an indignant huff from Baldur as he cracked the door open and they slipped through. When they emerged on the other side, Baldur immediately straightened, tugging at the collar of his embellished tunic as several guards, Morellian and Vishanti turned to face them._

_“Ahem.” Baldur cleared his throat as he folded his arms behind his back, subtly nudging Aerin in the side in a gesture that clearly meant,_ Act normal. _He nodded to the guards and walked proudly down the corridor, which was just as cold and unremarkable as the rest of the Khagan’s fortress. “Gentlemen.”_

_Aerin glanced around, face flushing under the weight of so many stares, then hurriedly rushed to catch up with Baldur, doing his best to mirror his brother’s authoritative posture. With every guard they passed, Aerin half expected to be scolded or questioned for leaving the dining hall unattended, but none of the knights said a word. It was not until they reached the end of the corridor that a Vishanti guardsman stepped into their path, stopping them from rounding the corner._

_He wore woven leather armor just like the rest of the mountain warriors, although the shoulder plates were made of gleaming bronze metal. Like the orcs, the might of the wooly mountain men came not from their weapons but their innate strength and tenacity. Because of this, most Vishanti armor and weapons were designed simply and efficiently, unlike the intricate and elaborate works crafted by Morellian blacksmiths. Metal was used sparingly, reserved for the swords and hammers of the Khagan and his elite force of warriors. Aerin did not know the exact structure of the khaganate’s warbands, but he was certain that this was a man of high rank._

_“Princes,” he said, his voice low and gruff. He peered down at them with eyes like slate, barely visible beneath his thick brows and the tangle of dark hair that crept up the sides of his tanned face. Aerin had witnessed the brutal glare of the sunlight reflecting off the snowy peaks of the frozen kingdom earlier that day. His cheeks still felt raw from the sunburn. “Where are you off to?”_

_“Oh, um,” Aerin began, reaching for the threads of a reasonable explanation. “Well, the adults wanted to discuss business without us_ ― _”_

_“What we do with our free time is of no concern to you, guard,” Baldur snapped with all of his usual haughty arrogance, turning up his nose even though the mountain warrior was several feet taller than him. He grabbed Aerin by the elbow, staring down the man with dismissive indifference. “As you were. Come, Aerin.”_

_Aerin gaped at his older brother as he allowed himself to be steered around the wooly man and down the next hallway. He glanced over his shoulder, waiting to be yelled at or berated for their insolence, but the man simply stepped back into his place against the wall and watched them go._

_When they were out of earshot, Aerin turned to his brother, at once puzzled and impressed. “How did you do that? He just let us go without another question!”_

_“A lesson, brother: we are princes. We do not have to explain ourselves to anyone,” Baldur stated blandly, rolling his eyes as if it were obvious. “Our business is of no concern to anyone else unless we make it so. If someone asks after our affairs, we are not obligated to reply. Explaining makes you suspicious.”_

_“Suspicious?”_

_“Giving away information when you do not have to makes it appear as if you have something that_ needs _explaining,” Baldur elaborated. “Actions that need justification.”_

_“I never learned about that in my lessons.” Aerin frowned. Something about that seemed wrong, although he tucked away this bit of information nonetheless. How could simply providing an explanation already be incriminating? Baldur’s reasoning, while somewhat sound, was so layered, Aerin did not have a hard time understanding why there was so little trust in the court._

_“That’s because it is something your tutors won’t teach you. You diplomats focus so much on how to please people through flattery and bargaining.”_

_Baldur led them through the winding halls of the fortress, passing several guards along the way, and Aerin wondered how exactly his brother had kept track of all of the twists and turns. When they had first arrived at the Khagan’s fortress that morning, Aerin had been too busy marveling at the sculpted tunnels that burrowed into the mountainside and wondering how such a feat was possible to pay attention to where they were going._

_“Real power comes from reading people. Knowing when they are hiding secrets and finding out what those secrets are to use as leverage.”_

_Aerin’s lips parted. That actually sounded… smart. “Is that what you do?”_

_“Gods, no. I have no need. I only know this so I do not fall into those traps myself.” Baldur scoffed, shaking his head. “Advisors and spies will do the dirty work for me when I am king.” He gazed sidelong at Aerin, raising a brow. “Perhaps that will be you one day. If you keep your head.”_

_Aerin nodded slowly. “Perhaps.”_

_As Aerin gazed around at the windowless granite walls and the lit wall sconces, he realized one more thing._

_“I still don’t know what you are planning,” he said, peering up at Baldur. “Where are we going?”_

_Baldur’s shoulders seemed to straighten and for once, the smile he gave was not colored with arrogance or malice. “Outside.”_

_Before long, they emerged from the inner caves of the fortress and into a wide, open courtyard bordered by granite pillars and tall pine trees. Up above, thousands of stars light up the night sky, twinkling like diamonds on a blanket of black velvet. Blanketed in the moonlight, the entire space looked like something straight out of one of the enchanting landscape paintings Aerin had spent hours staring at in the palace portrait gallery. Instantly, Aerin felt the sting of the bitter cold and wrapped his arms tightly around himself, lingering in the open doorway as Baldur strolled out, seemingly unaffected by the temperature._

_“We left the dining hall,” Aerin muttered, his breath clouding before him as his teeth began to chatter, “to freeze to death outside?”_

_“We left the dining hall, brother, to have fun.”_

_Aerin stumbled back through the doors as something wet and cold hit him square in the chest, flecks of ice spraying everywhere. “Baldur!”_

_The Crown Prince stood near a snowbank on the other side of the courtyard, already shaping another mound of snow into a ball with his reddening hands. “Live a little, for once, brother! There’s more to this world beyond what you can find in those books!”_

_Before Aerin could respond, another hunk of snow went soaring over his shoulder, forcing him to stumble away from the doors. He glanced apologetically at the sentries that silently stood guard nearby. “Baldur, you’re getting snow all over the entry hall!”_

_Baldur laughed. “Then move!”_

_Aerin ran around the courtyard, doing his best to dodge Baldur’s onslaught of snowballs until he finally had enough. Aerin scowled, shaking crystals of ice from his dark tangle of curls as he stooped, packing snow into his hand. “Fine!”_

_Aerin lobbed the mound of snow, grinning in satisfaction when it exploded against his brother’s shoulder._

_“Hey!” Baldur yelped, digging snow out of his collar. He pointed a menacing finger at Aerin, although his face was full of mirth. “You dare strike the Crown Prince?”_

_Aerin answered by hurling another snowball although this time he missed._

_“You’ve made a grave mistake, princeling,” Baldur half-heartedly threatened, kicking a spray of snow in Aerin’s direction. “Now it’s war!”_

_They sprinted around the courtyard, laughing and wheezing with glee, even as their clothes soaked through and their hair, weighed down with crystals of ice, began to cling to their temples. Aerin was not sure when was the last time he had played like this, if ever. He could not quite believe that it had taken him ten years for him to experience such freedom, such unrestrained joy, for the first time._

_Aerin had curled up the edges of his doublet, using it to transport as much snow as he could carry, and was tottering over to his brother when Baldur suddenly gasped, gaping at something in the distance._

_“Aerin…” he breathed, face slackening. A lump of snow slipped from his fingers and fell harmlessly to the ground. “Look.”_

_Aerin followed Baldur’s line of sight and felt his lips part in awe. “Incredible.”_

_A Vishanti white wolf stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching them with large, amber eyes. As it regarded them, Aerin could do nothing more than stare on in amazement. Although the white wolves were not considered to be creatures of legend, there was still something majestic and inspiring about them. This beast was wild and free in ways that Aerin could only ever dream of. And yet, they were loyal to these people, connected to them by a sense of duty that was learned and merited, not inherited. Young as he was, it was everything Aerin wanted for himself and his kingdom._

_Entranced, Aerin stepped forward but before he could get close, a distant howl disrupted the still silence. The wolf turned, craning its moon-white head toward the forest and the towering mountain peak beyond. It looked back at the young princes, almost as if in a parting gesture, then trotted off into the woods._

_Aerin watched until he could no longer see even a sliver of the wolf’s bright white coat in the shadows before he shook himself from his daze. He shivered, once again aware of the icy wind that kissed his cheeks, the numbness in his hands, the snow melting through his tunic. Aerin looked to Baldur, who still gazed into the wild. Then, he took those last few teetering steps and flung all of the snow he had gathered onto his brother._

_Baldur sputtered, eyes blowing wide as bits of melting ice slid down his forehead. “Why you little_ ― _!”_

 _Aerin yelped as Baldur tackled him into a snowdrift and they grappled like a pair of cubs. Aerin’s stomach ached but in a good way. He was having_ fun.

_“Boys.”_

_Aerin and Baldur froze, that voice sending an iciness through their veins that had nothing to do with the cold. Instantly, they sprung apart, scrambling to their feet and dusting off their soiled clothes. Their mother, the Queen of Morella, stood in the doorway of the fortress, her hands laced before her hips. She now wore her thick wool cloak over her dress, the dark fur that fanned along her slender neck blending in with the dark ringlets that spilled over her shoulders. For a moment, Aerin noted that his mother looked more at home here, surrounded by the wild, than she ever had in Whitetower._

_“Mother!” Baldur exclaimed, startled. “I_ ― _we… We were just…”_

_“Playing in the snow?” she replied, her hazel eyes, the same ones both of her sons bore, inspecting them carefully. “I see that.”_

_The two princes watched as she withdrew something sparkling and silver from the folds over her coat. “I believe you dropped this.”_

_It was Aerin’s fork._

_“Mother, I apologize,” Baldur said, his voice serious and pleading. “We just wanted to have some fun. We did not mean to disrespect anyone by taking our leave early.”_

_Of everyone, even their father, the queen was the only person Baldur treated with the utmost respect, the only person he still sought to gain approval from. This, Aerin knew was because hers was the only affection the Crown Prince still could not obtain._

_Aerin himself might have once been inclined to try and win his mother’s attention if only for the fact that it was the only thing Baldur did not already have a monopoly over. But even at this age, he knew any attempts would be futile._

_He understood his mother in a way that his brother never could. Aerin understood the way she did not feel at home in the palace, how she despised her title and the associated duties that were just another result of an arranged, loveless marriage. He understood that she wanted to have nothing to do with the court but was bound nonetheless by obligations and he understood that because she could not leave her place, she withdrew into herself. Aerin knew all of this because he felt the same way._

_“Mm,” the Queen simply said, tucking the fork back into her robes. “Neither did I.”_

_Aerin and Baldur watched, unsure of what to do or how to react as their mother rearranged the voluminous skirts of her dress, then sat on the ground in the middle of the doorway._

_“Your father sent me to find the two of you,” she explained, drawing her cloak tighter around her as she looked up at the sky. She was so young, only in her early thirties, but a few rivulets of silver threaded through her dark hair, illuminated by the moonlight. “I knew at once where the two of you had gone. But I suppose he would understand if we took our time going back. After all, it is so easy to get lost in the tunnels.”_

_Aerin’s brows rose as she leaned against the door, tilting her face up toward the sky. “...Mother?”_

_“Continue on,” she said smoothly, closing her eyes. “The two of you deserve to feel young for a little while longer.”_

_Aerin and Baldur looked at each other, perplexed but knowing better than to protest against a rare moment of respite. Because right now, they were not princes with heavy crowns and heavier legacies. Right now, their mother was here with them, acknowledging their existence. Right now, they were far from home and all of their responsibilities. They could never shirk the weight of the Valleros name and their mother would never regard them with more than lukewarm familiarity, but for now, this moment was enough._

_Aerin lunged, scooping up a handful of snow and slipping it down the collar of Baldur’s doublet, causing him to gasp aloud and stumble around while frantically attempting to shake the ice free of his clothes. His heel caught on the edge of the snowbank and he went careening backward, but not before grabbing Aerin by the front of his tunic. Together, they tumbled into the snow, their laughter echoing throughout the night._

* * *

Aerin could not help but relive that memory as he and the others crested the ridge that overlooked a massive structure carved from the mountain itself. After a rough night camping with the wooly men who kept them captive and a long morning of trudging across the rocky landscape of Vishanti, they had at last reached the Khagan’s fortress. Aerin gazed down at the sculpted heap of dark stone, his eyes lingering on the courtyard he and Baldur had romped around all those years before. 

There was less snow this time of year. The fortress was only dusted with the white powder rather than heaped with it, although Aerin felt just as cold―if not even more so―than he had the last time he had visited. Whatever heat he had somehow gained back had leached from his bones once more.

“Oh my…” Aerin heard Nia gasp from somewhere behind him in their daisy chain of prisoners. He tore his gaze away from the fortress, scanning the forest around them that bordered the narrow trail they trekked along. In between the towering pines, Aerin saw flashes of white, swift and graceful.

“The Vishanti wolves,” Iliana breathed in front of him, her voice filled with the same sense of awe that had possessed him when he first saw the white wolf in the courtyard. The wild creatures raced through the forest alongside them, drawing the eyes of their party and the wooly men, who regarded them with familiarity. Some of them even whistled, earning distant yaps in response.

Aerin studied Iliana’s profile as she gazed into the forest, oblivious to his attention. He knew enough about observing people to read the reverence that lined her features, the hesitant hope that was tightly gripped in her clenched fists. Aerin was pretty sure he could guess what she was thinking. _Have you seen my brother? Have you?_

Aerin suspected that she would find her answers soon, although he was no longer sure what was the best outcome. If the wooly mountain men were as wary of Kade as they were of Aerin and the party, perhaps it was better if Kade passed through the mountains of Vishanti undiscovered, even if it meant eventually having to brave the poison fields.

They wound down the ridge to the fortress in silence, flanked on either side by warriors and wolves. As they passed through the courtyard, Aerin gazed around, his chest suddenly tight and heavy. This was where one of the few good memories he had with Baldur had occurred. This was where Baldur had tackled him into the snow, had laughed and smiled with nothing more than innocent glee, had for once been something like a brother.

_I killed him._

It took breaking out of the palace dungeons, fleeing from his own home, traveling over a hundred miles, leaving his kingdom, and revisiting the sight of an inconsequential memory for Aerin to start feeling the weight of what he had done. Now, as Aerin shuffled toward the entrance to the fortress in their prisoner’s procession, he finally felt haunted. Haunted by the ghost of a brother that had never really been his.

_He deserved it. ...Didn’t he?_

Aerin stared hard at the ground, breathing heavily through his nose as he remembered that moment. He could still feel the relief that flooded through his veins when the Nerada Stone had been neutralized and the shadow within him burst free. He could still feel the thrum of great and terrible power in his palm as the Blade of Shadow came to life. He could still feel the reverberation through his arm and the warmth that coated his hand as he drove the sword home, straight through his brother’s chest.

_Maybe he did._

He remembered the flecks of warm blood that coated his cheek as Baldur wheezed his last breaths. He remembered how the light had left his brother’s hazel eyes. His mother’s eyes. His own eyes. 

_But who are you to decide that?_

Something had died in Aerin that day.

The deed that was meant to make him stronger, to solidify his standing in the Shadow Court and prove himself worthy of the title of Shadow King, had instead split his soul in two. All of this time, he had been holding himself together at the seams, shielding his eyes from the truth that would sever the last of his ties.

As he stared at his feet and the ground beneath him shifted from gravel and dirty snow to smooth, worn granite, Aerin rapidly deconstructed, his blood rushing loud in his ears. Aerin lost all awareness of his surroundings as he spiraled, paying no attention to where they were going as he numbly allowed himself to be led by the rope that connected his bound hands to the others.

Aerin had been called a murderer many times over the last few months, by others and by himself, but it was not until now that he realized what that word truly meant. He was supposed to be the smart one, had always prided himself knowing more than others, but in the end, he had been the biggest fool of all.

Aerin had been so lost in his own scattered mind that he did not realize they had arrived at their destination until the rope that bound his wrists had been severed. When he looked up, his legs felt weak and unsteady.

The band of warriors that had escorted them through the mountains had dispersed so that only a few remained. As the wooly men stood guard around them and one man severed their restraints, Aerin stared at the metal bars that loomed before him, black spots starting to form on the edges of his vision. _Another cell._

His breathing only became more strained as their escorts gave their orders, splitting their party into two groups of three for two cells that stood opposite of each other, separated by the hall they stood in.

“You will wait here until the Khagan calls for you,” one of the men stated, his authoritative voice leaving little room for argument, as if their weapons were not threatening enough. “You will state your reasoning for entering our kingdom unannounced over supper as per our customs. Then, it will be decided what is to be done with you.”

The doors to the cells were unlocked and held open, inviting them inside. Aerin’s mind was a storm of conflicting thoughts. 

_Not again._

_This is what you deserve._

_Not another cage._

_No matter where you go or how hard you try to hide, you will always end up here._

His vision tunneled to a pinprick, narrowing in on the cold slab of granite that formed the cell walls, the coarse metal that would trap him in. Aerin felt something in his chest crack open, a scorching heat licking along his lungs and ribs. He was either going to pass out, or something deep inside was about to blow. 

Aerin felt something cool brush against the back of his wrist, running along the side of his fine-boned hand, all the way up to his fingertip. He inhaled sharply, finally forcing sweet air into his aching lungs as he glanced down to find Iliana’s pinky finger curl around his own. 

_Breathe,_ he reminded himself, forcing his chest to rise and fall until it remembered how to do so on its own. His vision cleared, the heat in his chest subsiding once more. _Breathe._

“Get in,” one of the warriors ordered and Aerin heard Imtura snarl as someone nudged her forward.

Imtura, Mal, and Nia were ushered into one cell while Tyril, Iliana, and Aerin were shepherded into the one across from it. Focusing on his breath and the feel of Iliana’s skin against his, Aerin haltingly forced his legs to move forward, carrying him into the cage of stone and steel. He squeezed his finger tighter around Iliana’s as the door swung shut behind them and the locks and tumblers slid home with a finality that made Aerin flinch.

* * *

There was nothing in the dungeons that could mark the passage of time. The party was trapped deep within the belly of the mountain fortress, far from any windows or natural light sources that could show the sun’s position or if it had already come to set. There were not even any guards standing by to pester for the time. Evidently, now that the Morellian party was behind bars, the Vishanti no longer considered them to be a threat. Although admittedly, their confidence was well-placed.

Iliana did not know what kind of metal these cell doors were made of, but whatever it was, it was strong. Even Imtura could not make it budge in the slightest, no matter how hard she rammed it or yanked on the bars.

Iliana paced around the cell, holding tight to one of the wool blankets the guards had given them before leaving. At the back of the cell, Tyril sat against the wall with his arms folded and eyes closed. Aerin sat beside him, their shoulders pressed together to conserve heat, his face still covered in mud and gaze trained on the floor. 

The image of him pale and hyperventilating in the hall of the dungeon was branded into Iliana’s mind. She had never seen him so unsettled, so petrified before. It had made her chest ache in ways she did not know was possible. As she paced, Iliana wondered if his reaction had anything to do with the conversation they had had earlier on the drake before the wooly men had interrupted and forced them to land.

 _We can talk about it if you want,_ she had offered. And they would. Talk, that is. But that conversation would have to wait for a later time. As much as Iliana wanted to check on him, she doubted now was the time to bring his brother up, especially while the others were present.

In the cell across from theirs, Imtura sat against the wall, glaring at the grated door, her lips twisted into a scowl. Nia slept in the corner, curled in on herself, and Mal idly scratched the floor with one of the jagged chunks of granite that littered the ground, remnants of the crudely carved dungeon ceiling. 

_“Nia? Iliana? Tyril? Are you in there?”_

Iliana stiffened. She glanced at Tyril, who opened his eyes, lifting his gaze to hers. He had heard that too.

_“Mal? Imtura? …Aerin?”_

Iliana paced to the edge of her cell as the others looked on. “Threep? Is that you?”

“Oh, thank the Light!” Threep fluttered out of the shadows at the edge of the corridor, bobbing excitedly on his membranous wings. “I thought I would never find you all in this labyrinth!”

“Your catbat is back, priestess.” Mal gently shook Nia awake, his voice soft and filled with relief. “Boy, am I glad to see you again, kitty cat.”

“Where have you been?” Iliana asked as Threep’s ears twitched in irritation. “We haven’t seen you since they took the drakes away! Are you okay?”

Threep squeezed through the bars of the other cell, perching atop Nia’s shoulder, tail curling almost protectively around her upper arm. “We traveled ahead of your party with the rest of your belongings. I assume it was to make it harder for you to escape. Those barbarians led the drakes into some sort of stables a short distance up the mountain. I slipped out before they could unpack the saddlebags and followed them back to the fortress.”

“Did you see where they took our weapons?” Mal questioned and Threep bobbed his head. 

“They left everything in another room a short ways away,” the nesper replied. “I was surprised those beasts didn’t loot our belongings.”

Aerin shook his head, speaking up for the first time in a while. “The Vishanti people have a strict honor code and closely follow protocol. They will refrain from taking anything until it is certain that we won’t be needing them back.”

“Hopefully, it doesn’t come to that,” Tyril said grimly, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I wonder what kind of man this khagan is. Is he reasonable? How long must we wait before we have our audience with him? It must be around time for supper now.”

“If you ask me, this whole ‘dinner’ thing is just an intimidation tactic,” Imtura seethed, her hands clenching into fists. “Make us wait and worry while they sit around grooming their furry faces like a bunch of overgrown mutts.”

“Well, we have nothing to worry about, right?” Nia reasoned, absently brushing her fingers over Threep’s head as she spoke. “We just have to tell the Khagan that we’re searching for Kade. We’re not spies. Surely, he will see that.”

“Assuming he believes us,” Mal muttered, shaking his head with a scowl. “He could very well just be another tyrant who doesn’t care about the truth.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Iliana saw Aerin bristle, although he did not argue.

“Speaking of your audience,” Threep continued, tail flicking back and forth. “I overheard a few of the warriors talking. The Khagan only wants to speak with three of you.”

“Three of us?” Iliana echoed, her brows knitting together.

“One human, one orc, and one elf,” he stated and the group gazed around at one another. “Representatives of each of Morella’s main sentient species.”

“Gee, I wonder who the orc is going to be,” Imtura muttered, folding her arms across her chest.

“But why?” Mal asked, screwing his lips to the side as a crease appeared in his forehead.

“Because three of us is easier to take on than six,” Tyril answered, his expression dark. “Just in case we wanted to try and attack. And even if we tried to escape, half of us would be left behind in the dungeons.”

“That, and I heard that the Khagan is something of a curious man,” Threep added, pouncing off of Nia’s shoulder to the solid ground. “Based on what I picked up, I heard he’s developed an interest in you six and would like to take this opportunity to know more about Morella and its people tonight.”

Iliana turned to Aerin, an eyebrow arched. “You’ve met the Khagan before. Is there anything we should know about him before we go in to speak with him?”

“Truthfully, when I met the Khagan as a child, there was nothing particularly special about him,” he replied with a frown, cupping his chin in his hand. “He was like all Vishanti rulers that have come before him. Stoic to the core. An isolationist. Which is why it is odd that the Khagan has any interest at all in us beyond getting us out of his kingdom as soon as possible.” 

“It could be possible that he wants to improve relationships with Morella?” Nia suggested hopefully, lacing her fingers together in her lap.

Imtura huffed, glowering in the corner. “Or he wants to invade it.” 

When everyone turned to her with her brows raised, her face slackened slightly. 

“What? It’s no secret that the Valleros rule is weak right now. Not only does the old king have no established heir, but the public is wondering how he did not know that his own son was the source of Morella’s corruption.” She glanced at Aerin, her expression almost apologetic. _Almost._ “Morellians are questioning his strength. People don’t like uncertainty. My own mother said that now would be as good a time as any to stage a coup.”

As Imtura spoke, Iliana recalled the snippets of conversation she had overheard in different taverns across the kingdom over the last few years. This was not the first time she had heard this sort of talk about the so-called Gentle King, although she had always dismissed it as the usual criticism. Iliana had not considered that these opinions could have real consequences.

Iliana leaned against the wall as she studied Aerin’s muddied countenance, although he kept his face carefully neutral. This, of course, was another act of his. After their conversation about Baldur and the way he had acted earlier, Iliana liked to think that she knew him well enough to assume that this discussion about his family bothered him more than he let on.

“Are you going to?” Aerin asked dryly, his hazel eyes dull and flat. “Stage a coup?”

Imtura grinned. “We’ll see how I feel when I get home. It sounds like it’ll be a fun challenge.”

“Well, regardless of why the Khagan wants to know about Morella, we still need to be careful about how we approach our hearing with him,” Tyril reasoned, his gaze flicking between each member of the party as he got to his feet. “Which is why we need to decide who is going to represent us tonight. Clearly, Imtura will go, but we have three humans and two elves.”

Mal arched a brow. “Well, I think it’s obvious which of us humans will go.”

Tyril frowned. “Mal, I don’t think you have the finesse―”

“I’m not talking about me, elf boy,” Mal snapped, rolling his eyes. “The princeling goes. He knows the most about these people and their customs. And he got us out of that mess earlier, even though he landed us in these cells. But we’re alive, so I guess that says something. Bunch of fancy talk does work sometimes.”

Iliana looked to Aerin, whose mouth had fallen open in surprise. For a moment, she thought he might protest, but then he pressed his lips together and dipped his chin in acceptance and, Iliana suspected, maybe even gratitude.

“Right. Well.” Tyril turned to Iliana, his gaze questioning. “Who shall it be? You or me?”

In terms of diplomacy and political skill, Tyril certainly had her beat. He had years of training under his belt due to the constant scheming that went on between the Houses in elven politics. But… “Kade’s my brother. I have to go and see if I can find out any information about where he is. Maybe the wooly men have sighted him.”

Tyril nodded, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall once more. “Very well.”

Aerin cleared his throat, dropping his wool blanket as he got to his feet. “If I am going to meet with the Khagan, I need a better disguise. This mud won’t hold up forever.”

Iliana tilted her head, long hair slipping over her shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no way I will be allowed to greet the Khagan covered in mud and reeking like a vagrant,” Aerin said flatly, his fingers picking at the crusted dirt that lined the hem of his tunic as he explained to the rest of the group what Iliana already somewhat knew. “Things will only get worse if the Khagan recognizes me. Even if the wooly men don’t know I am a wanted criminal, they might very well take my unexpected appearance as a threat. The prince of Morella spying on their kingdom? We could very well start a war if we aren’t careful.”

“So _that’s_ why you look like you fell in a cow patty,” Mal remarked although Aerin ignored him.

“I need something more permanent. Something that cannot be washed away.” He swallowed, back stiffening as he held his chin high, even though Iliana saw the slight tremor in his fingers before he curled them into fists. “I need one of you to hit me.”

 _“Gods,_ kid.”

“Absolutely not!” Iliana’s mouth fell open, her stomach clenching in revulsion. “Aerin―”

“I’m not going to risk inciting a war between Vishanti and Morella because the Khagan recognizes me,” he interjected. “It’s already been a few years, so it doesn’t need to be horrible. Just enough to draw attention away from any identifying features.”

Tyril sighed heavily, running his hands through his hair. The look he gave Aerin was at once apologetic and filled with begrudging respect as he said, “He’s right, Iliana. Marring his face… it is a small price to pay for the risks and uncertainties we would avoid.” He stepped forward, shoulders pushed back. “I will do it.”

“No.” Iliana held out a hand, her face stern. When she turned back to Aerin, her expression softened. For some reason, she could not stomach the idea of one of her friends hurting him, even if it was for a cause like this. She stepped closer, her eyes searching his. “Are you certain of this?”

He answered without a moment of hesitation. “Yes.”

“And what if we tell them the truth?” Iliana suggested even though she knew there was no use in trying. “Perhaps if they know that you’re the prince and we convince them that you mean them no harm, they’ll feel more inclined to release us for the same reason. To avoid starting a war with Morella over your capture.”

“Even if we managed to convince them that I am not a threat to them―which is highly unlikely―then at the very least, we would be detained until my father sends an escort to retrieve us.” Aerin “If word got out that the Khagan let go the most well-known traitor to the Morellian crown and his travel companions―who, do not forget, are _also_ considered to be criminals―then―”

“Then the Khagan and his people would pay,” Iliana finished, her heart sinking in her chest. There truly was not a better option, just a safer one.

“Exactly.” Aerin nodded. “They are cautious people. And relations with Morella are delicate. This isn’t just about us, Iliana.” He broke her stare and grabbed a jagged rock from the ground, hefting it in his palm. After a moment of consideration, he held it out to her. “Do it.”

Iliana felt the blood drain from her face. “With a _rock?”_

“A simple bruise may not be enough. The scabbing will help. “And this way, you won’t have to do it multiple times. Only once.” He glanced down at the rock in his hand. “Hopefully. Just… make sure you do it hard enough.”

Nia paled, turning away. “I think I am going to be sick.”

Iliana was feeling pretty ill herself. She swallowed hard, searching his face for even the slightest bit of hesitation, but he remained firm and resolute. “I’ll heal you after.”

Aerin merely shrugged. His appearance was the least of their concerns.

At last, Iliana nodded, taking the rock from his fingers. She took a deep breath to steady herself as she used the edge of her sleeve to wipe away some of the dirt and grime from the side of his face. Then she gently framed the side of his face with one hand, his cheek warm against her palm, and gritted her teeth, gathering her nerves. 

Aerin met her gaze, luminous in the shadows, and reached up to gently squeeze her wrist in encouragement. Iliana’s frown only deepened as he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Forgive me,” Iliana whispered. Then, she struck.

There was a sickening squelch, the sound of battered skin tearing, and a thud. From the other cell, Iliana could hear one of her friends inhale sharply and another swear. Aerin let out a low, pained grunt and he swayed, knees buckling beneath his weight. Iliana immediately dropped the rock, startling as if burned and reached out to steady him just as Tyril gripped his elbow.

“I’m sorry,” Iliana breathed, wrapping her arm around his waist as she and Tyril gently lowered him to the ground. They propped him up against the wall and dazed, Aerin let the back of his head rest against the stone. Iliana hissed at the sight. “Oh, gods.”

The entire left side of Aerin’s face was bloodied like a raw slab of meat, his eyelid already starting to bruise and swell shut. His breath was ragged and the single hazel eye that he could still see out of was unfocused.

“Hells, kit! You might as well have taken half of his godsdamned face off!” 

_“Mal,”_ Tyril snapped, shooting him a glare.

Aerin inhaled shakily, licking blood from his lips. “Is it good enough?”

“Good enough?” Imtura echoed, clearly impressed. “Lad, I don’t think it can get much better than this. No one would ever even think to associate you with one of those palace rats.”

“I think we should thank our lucky stars that Iliana didn’t just kill him!” Threep exclaimed and although Iliana did not tear her eyes away from Aerin’s, she knew the nesper looked horrified.

“Iliana―ugh, gods.” Nia’s voice was watery and laced through with revulsion. “Use the Light to heal him. Not completely, but just enough to stop the bleeding and ease the pain. Oh, Light guide him.”

Iliana nodded, her brows knitted together as she delicately took Aerin’s battered face between her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered again.

Iliana called upon the Light, feeling it warm her skin as her fingertips began to glow silver. She channeled her magic into the injury on his face. Almost immediately, the flow of blood slowed to a trickle, then a halt, and the wound began to scab over. Aerin let out a shaky sigh as the pain ebbed away to a dull but bearable throb.

“That’s… better,” he breathed, some of the tension in his body oozing away. Iliana let her hands slip from his face although she kept one on his shoulder. Whether it was for her comfort or his, she wasn’t entirely certain.

“I would consider myself lucky if I never see something like that again,” Mal muttered and to everyone’s surprise, Aerin laughed lightly.

“I would consider myself lucky if I never have to experience something like that again,” he said weakly.

“No one can say you don’t have guts, prince,” Imtura said and Aerin’s lip curled ever so slightly.

“That was brave of you,” Tyril told him, standing from his crouch beside him. “And selfless.”

Iliana gently squeezed his shoulder, her voice soft. “How do you feel?”

“I’ve been better,” Aerin admitted, tenderly touching the raw skin and wincing. “But I’ll manage.”

“Good.” She nodded, carefully wiping away some of the dried blood from his face and shifting his cloak― _her_ cloak―to cover the bloodstains that marred the soiled collar of his tunic. “That’s good.”

Iliana was about to ask if he needed any more of her Light for the pain when Threep suddenly whispered, _“Someone’s coming!”_

Iliana turned as Threep quickly squeezed through the bars of the cell. _“I’ll come back!”_

Threep had just disappeared into the shadows at the far end of the corridor as five warriors appeared at the other end of the hall, each one of them as massive as an orc and heavily armed. 

“It is time for your audience,” the one at the center stated as two others unlocked the cells. Iliana noticed that all of the guards were Vishanti women, the first she had seen ever since they were captured the night before. Iliana noted that unlike the other warriors she had seen, these ones had breast- and shoulder-plates made of gleaming bronze, not just woven leather. “The Khagan requests that we bring one human, one elf, and one orc. You may choose amongst yourself who goes.”

“Guess I don’t have much of a choice,” Imtura grumbled as she exited her cell. She held out her wrists for restraints, but none of the guards moved to take them. Imtura huffed, sizing up their escorts. “What, no shackles? It would certainly make your job a lot easier.”

One of the women smiled coldly. “Don’t worry about us, orc. I assure you we don’t need restraints to deal with you.”

Imtura laughed. “I like your confidence, furball. But you don’t know me.”

Iliana shifted her gaze from Imtura to the guard who stood in the doorway of their cell, waiting expectantly. She looked at Aerin. “Can you stand?”

Aerin nodded and Iliana gripped his forearm, helping him to his feet. She let her hand linger on his elbow until she was certain that he would not fall, then gently guided him before her. 

“We’ll go,” she told the woman and she nodded, stepping aside to let them pass before locking the door to the cell. As soon as Imtura, Iliana, and Aerin were out of their cells and surrounded by the guards, they were ushered down the hallway, back toward the way the warriors had come.

“Ready, lads?” Imtura asked, her golden gaze sliding over them. She gave them a daring grin, smiling as if they were going out to tavern hop in Whitetower, not meet with the ruler of an entire khaganate.

Iliana tried to capture some of the orc captain’s confidence for herself as she glanced over her shoulder at the rest of her companions, who stared after them through the bars of their cells. As they rounded the corner and left the dungeons behind, she faced forward and drew in a steadying breath.

She felt something brush against her hand and glanced down to see Aerin’s pinky skim hers, the motion too steady and careful to be anything but intentional. Iliana allowed herself a small smile as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Even bruised and battered, he managed to stir something warm and pleasant in the cavern of her chest.

“No,” Iliana admitted, throwing back her shoulders and lifting her chin as she set her mind to focus on the task ahead. “But let’s do this anyway.”


	11. Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody has their secrets.

When Iliana was thirteen, she took a nasty fall off the back of a horse and broke her leg in several places. She had spent much of that spring stuck in bed, confined to the small bedroom she shared with her brother while all of the other village children got to race through the blooming fields and splash in the river. All of the other village children except, of course, Kade. 

If it had not been for him, Iliana was certain that she would have gone mad with boredom. When he was not helping Amphitryon or Alcmene around the house, Kade spent much of his time reading to Iliana from an expansive collection of stories he had gotten from a traveling merchant that winter. In that collection of stories, there had been one about a massive badger that had tunneled straight into the heart of a mountain. Every bit of stone its great claws touched turned to gold.

Iliana thought of that story now as she, Imtura, and Aerin were led through the winding halls of the Khagan’s mountain fortress. Although they were not gilded in gold, these corridors looked as if they had been carved by a great beast. Iliana had never seen anything like it. How many halls was this fortress comprised of and how deep did they go? How were they built and when? Iliana had a feeling Aerin might know. He seemed to have answers for everything.

“So where’s this dining hall of yours?” Imtura asked their wooly escorts, her hands swinging casually at her sides as she gazed around. Judging by her tone, she was significantly less fascinated by the construction of the fortress as Iliana was. “That’s where we’re going, right?”

“Ultimately,” one of the Vishanti women replied, her rich voice low and smooth. “But first, you must be presentable.”

“Presentable?” Imtura echoed, her nose scrunching. “What’s wrong with the way we look now?”

Iliana could think of several things. The first was the torn and muddy rags they called clothes, which were far too thin for the mountain climate. There was also the fact that they smelled like loamy soil, wood smoke, and their drakes.

“Take these,” another woman ordered, pressing a bundle of clothing into their empty arms. “You’ll be warmer.”

The clothing, whatever it was, was made of flexible leather and fur. Thick and heavy. If Iliana was being honest, she was glad for the change. Her current rags would never hold up against the elements if they ever got out of this fortress and resumed their journey. She hoped the others were given the same treatment back in the cells.

“You should consider this an upgrade,” the first guard added, avoiding Imtura’s question as they came to a nondescript set of ash wood doors. Another warrior opened the doors and they were quickly ushered in, although none of the other women followed. “Wash up and dress. Do not dally. The Khagan is waiting.”

As soon as they entered the room, the door was shut behind them and Iliana heard as the bolt slid home, locking them in. She turned, taking note of their new surroundings. They were in a small, cavern-like room illuminated by lanterns sat in small alcoves carved into the walls. At the center of the room sat a large basin of water, tendrils of steam wicking off its placid surface. A mirror was propped against the granite wall, and beside it were several rags and three lumpy bars of soap.

“Looks like we’re supposed to freshen up,” Iliana sighed, stooping to set her new clothes aside and grab a rag and soap. “I can’t say that I’m not a little glad to get all of this grime off.”

Imtura cautiously sniffed a hunk of soap, then grunted. “At least it doesn’t smell like flowers.”

Without much fanfare, Iliana and Imtura started to shuck off their outer layers, exposing dirty skin and leaving their torsos bare aside from their smallclothes. Out of the corner of her eye, Iliana saw Aerin turn away, a blush creeping up the sides of his neck.

“Oh.” He cleared his throat, pointedly averting his gaze. “Change… here? Now?”

“They’re just bodies, princeling,” Imtura teased, splashing water from the basin on her arms and face. No need to get all flustered.”

“We promise not to peek,” Iliana added, rolling her eyes as she began to scrub away the layers of dried sweat and grime that covered her skin. She heard a reluctant huff and then the rustling of clothes as Aerin unclasped her cloak, pulled off his tunic, and began to wash.

“So,” Imtura began, rubbing soap along her green skin. “What’s our game plan? We should have one right? To face the Khagan?”

“Sometimes a simple plan is the best plan,” Aerin stated, his voice steady and even authoritative. Iliana realized that he was in his element, using his courtly training to navigate them through this situation. “We should refrain from using our real names of course. I’ve no doubt the Khagan has heard of the Tal Kaelens and although I do not know how much the wooly men know about the recent events in Morella, it is best to be cautious.”

“And our story?” Iliana asked.

“Partial truths,” he replied. “We are looking for your brother who has embarked on a foolish quest to find creatures of legend.”

“Should we keep his search for the Old Gods a secret?”

“It does not matter if we do or don’t. Most doubt the gods’ existence and believe they are long gone, anyway. The Khagan will see that it is a fool’s errand.”

“This all sounds easy enough,” Imtura huffed.

“Be that as it may, we must still remain vigilant,” Aerin chided, his face stern. “Remember, our main goal is to please the Khagan. The best way to do that is by showing him that we mean no harm and by answering all of his questions as best as we can. Threep said he is curious about Morella, so I expect many of his questions to be about our kingdom and our people. Fortunately, I believe it is safe to say that those are two topics all of us are well-versed in, but if there are any questions you do not have answers to or that I think are suspicious, I will try to handle them.”

“So, basically,” Iliana said, trailing her fingers through the water and watching her reflection distort. “Just act normal and if anything goes haywire, we follow your lead.”

“Essentially, yes.”

Iliana shrugged. She didn’t have a better plan. “Alright. Imtura?”

Imtura huffed and it was obvious that she was not too fond of the idea of letting so much of the plan depend on Aerin, but at last, she nodded. “Fine.”

They continued to freshen up in silence and gradually, as the water in the basin clouded with soap and dirt, Iliana became acutely aware of the body beside hers, the heat that radiated off of Aerin like a living furnace. She chewed the inside of her lip as she rubbed her skin raw. The soap left behind a sort of tingling sensation and made her palms sting a bit, but at least it did the job. Even if she could not fully bathe like she wanted to, Iliana felt the cleanest she had been in about a week.

As she dunked the cloth in the water and rinsed the soapy residue from her arms, Iliana risked a glance to her right. She watched as Aerin’s hands wrung the water from his washcloth, his tendons flexing, knuckles bending, the veins on the backs of his hands and the undersides of his forearms standing out in harsh relief against his pale skin. He had an artist’s hands, she realized―fine-boned and nimble-fingered.

When she was younger, she would sometimes watch the local Riverbend artists paint in the town square or at the edge of the river that ran through town as she and Kade ate buttered bread rolls, flaky crumbs sticking to their crafty fingers. Even though she never had the patience nor resources to ever try something artistic, Iliana had always admired those who tried. There was something majestic about the ability to create, to create something out of nothing. 

She wondered if he had ever held a paintbrush. She assumed so. Painting sounded like one of the things princes learned in palaces as fancy as Whitetower, even though she certainly could not imagine Baldur engaging in such a refined activity.

Iliana’s attention lifted from his hands, traveling over his wrists and up his arms. He was not corded with muscle like Mal or Tyril, but lithe and lean. Her gaze slid from his shoulders to the scalpel-sharp line of his collarbone. She felt her heart positively clench when her attention snagged on the twisted knot of scar tissue that marred the smooth expanse of his chest. A silvery sunburst, the scar reminded Iliana of the first Orb of Light she had ever conjured with Nia in the caves of Zephyr Cove.

_ That is where the Nerada Stone had been,  _ Iliana realized, recalling the magical red stone that had pulsed at the center of Aerin’s chest when he had betrayed them back in the throne room of the Whitetower palace. Judging by how thick and gnarled the scar tissue was, Iliana imagined that the wound the stone had left must have been agonizing.

“What happened to no peeking?”

Iliana startled, dropping her washcloth into the basin as she met Aerin’s stare. Distantly, she realized that once, before their lives had gone to hell, Iliana might have been punished for gazing upon a prince of Morella in any state of undress while he was unaware, but she was relieved to see that he did not look angry or offended or even the slightest bit reproachful. Instead, he appeared almost… solemn. Ashamed.

Iliana’s cheeks burned and she quickly looked away, finding her own reflection in the cloudy water. “Sorry.”

She withdrew from the basin, deciding that she was as clean as she could possibly get with the what little they had, and flicked her fingers to expel any excess water. As the others finished up, she changed into the clothes provided by the wooly warriors. The clothes―which reminded Iliana of orcish fashion―were a little large on her, probably meant for a Vishanti child, but they were much better than her old tunic and trousers. 

The suede leggings were soft and lined with wool, trapping in Iliana’s body heat as she tucked the ends into her worn boots. Atop a tunic of fleece, she pulled on a long-sleeved leather doublet that was fastened across her chest, held fast by clasps that Iliana thought might have been bear claws instead of buttons. Two panels of leather hung from the front and back of the doublet, falling across Iliana’s shins and leaving the sides of her legs and hips uncovered. Thick, greyish-brown fur peeked out from the high collar of the coat, tickling the underside of Iliana’s chin.

“I’ll admit it,” Imtura said as she rotated her shoulders, testing the flexibility of the leather arms. She paced around the room, redoing the braids that adorned her long, burgundy hair. “This getup ain’t so bad. You could definitely still crush some skulls in it.”

“It is certainly warm,” Aerin noted. Somehow, he still managed to look regal in his new outfit, which was similar to Imtura’s and Iliana’s but without the long panels. Aerin adjusted his cuffs, then took up a spare washcloth and stood in front of the mirror. Iliana heard him hiss as he gingerly dabbed at his face, clearing away mud and dried blood he had not yet taken care of.

Iliana almost reached to take a rag and help him, but she refrained. He could take care of himself. Instead, she tangled her fingers into her own hair, deciding to plait it back when Imtura waved her over. “Come here, landrat. I’ll give you some braids fit for an orc queen.”

Iliana nodded, allowing the pirate to style her hair with surprising gentleness and dexterity. Imtura braided several small braids into Iliana’s dark locks before combing the top of her hair back and gathering some of the smaller braids into one larger plait.

“Before my mother united the twelve Clans, the fleets were almost constantly at war,” Imtura said as her fingers worked several small braids into Iliana’s dark locks. “As you know, we don’t have any fancy hierarchies in our fleets so every orc has an equal chance to show their mettle and strength. Battles were just a place to win glory and prove our value as an individual―like a competition. Except when you defeat another orc, you aren’t just winning honor for yourself. You’re taking someone else’s away.”

“That sounds rough,” Iliana commented, meeting Aerin’s gaze as he turned away from the mirror and began to listen in.

Iliana watched their reflections as Imtura nodded behind her. “It was. Not everyone handled it the same way. For many, surviving a defeat was worse than dying because if you were too injured to fight again, you would never get a chance to reclaim your honor.”

“The elves have a similar mentality,” Iliana said with a frown, recalling some of the facts the Starfurys had taught her while she was visiting Undermount. “ _ ‘Deshana el zentana.’  _ Death before dishonor. Surrendering or retreating was extremely shameful. Warriors were expected to die before yielding.”

She glanced down at her hands as she spoke, twisting the signet ring on her thumb before she paused, her brows knitting.  _ Should probably keep this hidden.  _ Iliana slipped the ring off her finger and tucked it into one of the inner pockets of her leather coat for safekeeping. When she looked up, she saw that Aerin had been watching her hands. He met her gaze and quickly looked away.

“Exactly,” Imtura was saying. “The only difference is that your Clan would never look down on you for losing a battle. It was a personal offense. And that was why it meant so much more.”

Iliana nodded in understanding as Aerin asked, “Does this sort of thing still happen amongst your people?”

“No. Without the Clan wars, there’s no reason for fighting amongst us except for friendly competition. If anything like that does happen, it’s the result of a petty squabble,” Imtura replied, gathering the top half of Iliana’s hair and beginning to braid it back. “The last battle happened long before I was born. Although my mother told me that the orcs of her fleet, the Minurva Clan, used to add a new braid to their for every notable enemy they defeated. If they lost a battle, they cut a braid off.”

“Surely they could have just… unbraided it?” Aerin raised an eyebrow, folding his arms behind his back, a picturesque student.

“They could have,” Imtura conceded with a grin. “But that’s not very symbolic, is it?”

Aerin’s lip curled ever so slightly. “No. It isn’t. And if I have learned anything, it is that symbols have power.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” Iliana began, tilting her head as she studied her reflection. “I think I have a few too many braids, Imtura.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, tying off the last plait with a thin strip of leather. “You’ve felled many beasts, landrat. And if what the elf lord told me about the trouble that’s about to come… finding your Gods and facing the Ash Empire… There will be plenty of chances for you to earn your braids.”

Iliana stiffened just as Aerin’s eyes narrowed to slits of burning hazel. His voice was as harsh as she had ever heard it as he demanded, “What?”

He still did not know.

She truthfully had no explanation for not telling Aerin. She had managed to find time to tell the others and she had plenty of opportunities to inform him as well, so it would be a lie to say she did not have the chance. Perhaps it was obvious wariness and aversion to any discussion of the Old Gods that made her steer clear of the topic. Or maybe it was because she feared that if she told him about their new plan, he would leave.

Iliana swallowed, her stomach plummeting. “After we find Kade, we’re going to continue his search for the Old Gods.”

He scowled at her. “Iliana―”

Aerin was cut off as the door to the washroom suddenly swung open, admitting the female warriors from before. Iliana fought down the urge to sigh in relief as two of them flanked each side of the doorway as the fifth stood in the hall. It was the fifth who spoke with a voice like granite. “Come. It is time for you to meet the Khagan.”

* * *

Aerin was seething.

He glared hard at the back of the nearest Vishanti warrior―who he noted earlier must have been one of the Khagan’s elite warriors, judging by her bronze armor―as they were led from the washroom to the fortress’ dining hall. He was still mulling over what Imtura had said. 

_ And if what the elf lord told me about the trouble that’s about to come… finding your Gods and facing the Ash Empire… There will be plenty of chances for you to earn your braids. _

How many times did he have to emphasize that chasing the Old Gods was a horrible idea? It was bad enough that they were already chasing Kade, but now they were chasing him to  _ join  _ him?

Aerin could feel Iliana’s gaze boring into his profile but he did not turn to face her. Deep down, he knew that he had no reason to expect Iliana or the members of her party to tell or give him anything they did not want to. In the end, he was still a prisoner they had broken out for his usefulness, not because he was one of them. But still… he had thought Iliana might―well, not exactly  _ trust  _ him, but something like that. Why hadn’t she told him? It was not like it really mattered what he thought because even if he did disagree with her, he knew that she would still do whatever she wanted.

And the decision to find the Old Gods was not the only thing Iliana had kept from him.  _ The Ash Empire…  _ Like the Old Gods, Aerin had only ever heard whispers about the forgotten kingdom. He knew that they preceded the Dreadlord and that they were incredibly powerful and awful. But beyond that, he knew very little of them.

Aerin’s fingers curled into his palm. Why hadn’t she told him?

_ You do not belong with them. Do not forget that. _

Aerin felt his face burn with embarrassment. There had been a moment earlier today, when the others had comforted him after the throbbing wound had marred his face, that he almost believed he could. Belong.

Aerin was pulled from his thoughts as they finally reached their destination and the Vishanti guards heaved the doors open. He had been so busy brooding that he had not noticed the din of many voices echoing throughout the fortress tunnels, had not considered that perhaps they would not be dining alone until they were ushered into the dining hall and Aerin gazed upon the room full of Vishanti warriors.

“What the hells?” Imtura hissed beneath her breath, her golden eyes flaring.

Unlike the last time Aerin had seen this room, it did not house just one long dining table, but several. Each one was crammed full with wooly men and women who jovially talked and drank from pints of ale or goblets of wine over plates piled high with smoked meats, potatoes, and vegetables. 

Wooden benches lined the perimeter of the hall, providing more seating space for occupants to eat or converse. Wall sconces illuminated the room in warm, golden light and a fire roared in a hearth carved into the wall, the smoke draining through some hidden vent that Aerin assumed tunneled through the mountain and into the open air. A small part of him marveled at the ingenuity of the khaganate and how they managed to make this mountain their home while the other gaped at the lively room, which went against every memory and every bit of knowledge he had of Vishanti and its people.

“I thought you said they were stoic people?” Iliana whispered as she stared, slack-jawed at the dining hall. Several wooly men and women stared back at them, some with curiosity, some with immediate distrust and wariness. 

“They are,” he replied, equally shocked. He noticed that there were even children present, which Aerin had never seen before, made distinguishable by their smaller stature. “Or at least they were. This… is not how I remember it.”

“Clearly,” Imtura snapped under her breath as they were ushered towards one of the dining tables. As the Khagan’s elite guard approached, several of the wooly people who occupied it left, leaving just enough space for Aerin, Iliana, and Imtura to sit side by side across from a female Vishanti warrior who regarded them silently but curiously as she ate, her bright hazel eyes―which stood out in contrast to the dark gazes of the other wooly men―flicking between them.

Aerin frowned. What was this? Some sort of game? He wondered if this was some sort of intimidation tactic of the Khagan’s, immersing them in a crowd of potential enemies to dissuade them from acting out while simultaneously pressuring them to provide answers. 

But then again, if the Khagan truly believed them to be spies, why would he let them observe so many of his people? As Aerin gazed around the room, noting the familiarity with which the wooly men and women treated each other and the warmth in their expressions, he began to wonder if the sight before him was not false, but rather the information he had been fed for years  _ was.  _

Was it possible that the stoicism and their icy demeanor had been a front shown to the rest of the Realm? The tactic certainly had its benefits. The wooly men’s reputation of not only being incredibly strong but also cold and guarded had kept other kingdoms out of Vishanti’s affairs. 

Furthermore, in his history lessons, Aerin had learned that communities that thrived off of familial relationships and unfaltering loyalty between its members were seen as uncivilized and weak compared to those that were governed by a hierarchy of power, which was not true at all. Although his father would never admit it, Ventra Tal Kaelen’s united orc fleet was a perfect example of this. Even though they valued individuality over all else and they fought for personal glory during battles, the loyalty amongst the Clans was unrivaled. Aerin even suspected that if the Tal Kaelens wanted to, they could take Whitetower and the kingdom.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized it made sense. He thought of the way the Vishanti warriors worked together flawlessly, like a well-oiled machine. On their trek to the fortress, Aerin had noticed that the warriors worked together as a nearly perfect unit, even though they barely spoke.

Aerin circled back to the same question he had before: if the Khagan suspected them of being spies, why would he let them witness this secret?

_ Because if he suspects us to be spies, we aren’t leaving this fortress alive. _

Aerin’s stomach clenched and he silently prayed to the gods, the New and―as much as frustrated him―the Old that the Khagan had not already made up his mind about them.

Aerin shook himself from his thoughts as one of the warriors placed an empty wooden plate and goblet before him. He looked up and down the table, noting that the plates of the surrounding wooly men were covered with slices of smoked venison, diced potatoes, and some sort of white root he could not identify. The aroma of the meat and spices made his mouth water and stomach growl. When was the last time they had eaten? He was pretty sure his last meal had only been rations.

To his left, on the other side of Iliana, Imtura snarled, looking at the guards that still stood nearby. “Alright, you’ve made us wait all day for dinner as demanded by your customs. Now we’re here. Where’s the Khagan? We’d like to settle this with him as soon as possible so we can get on our way. We’ve got a tiny human to find.”

The wooly woman who sat across from them tilted her head, her hazel eyes wide. “So you are the Morellians who are meeting with the Khagan?”

“Yes,” Iliana answered, her voice prim and smooth. “We only wound up here due to a misunderstanding that we hope to clear up with him. We were told we were to have an audience with him over supper and now we are waiting  _ patiently _ ―” She shot Imtura a reproachful glance. “―for him.”

“Ah, tell me,” the woman asked, setting her fork aside and resting her chin on her fist as she glanced between them. “What do you know about the Khagan? I have always wondered what the common folk of Morella know about our people, if anything at all.”

There was something… off about her although Aerin could not place exactly what it was. Was it her posture? It was surprisingly casual for someone who was talking to a bunch of strange foreigners but Aerin had also come to realize that he knew even less about the wooly men of Vishanti that he had once thought. Perhaps that was normal. 

Maybe it was her accent. It was not as thick as the others’ he had heard. It was a subtle difference: sometimes her syllables were smooth and syrupy slow while others were clipped like they were in the Morellian dialect. And Aerin could not be certain, but did she seem a little less  _ wooly _ than the others? She was still covered in hair but it looked a little thinner―although maybe that was just the way the distant firelight illuminated her form.

Iliana and Imtura looked to him, expectantly waiting for him to answer for them. 

“Not much,” he replied with a shrug, which was the absolute truth. “I’ve read that just like former khagans, he was an isolationist who came into power by defeating the last ruler in a duel on the highest peak of the Frostwhisper Mountains. Scholars reported that the Khagan did not even bring a weapon to the fight and only used what the environment provided. They claim that two icicles through the skull finished the duel. But any specifics other than that, I do not know.”

The woman raised her brows. “Hm, impressive. Although it was two icicles through the heart, not the skull that did the old khan in. I believe your scholars must get their information second-hand, probably from the halflings who live along the base of the mountain range. Morellians rarely visit our capital.”

Iliana leaned forward, intrigued. “There are halflings of the wooly men?”

“Of course.” The woman took a large swig from her goblet of wine before speaking again, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “Morella has halflings, no? Orc and elf, elf and human, human and orc?”

“Well, yes, but they keep to themselves.” Iliana frowned, picking up her fork and dragging it through the potatoes on her plate. “Not all communities are welcoming of halflings.”

“Especially those who’ve got some orc in them,” Imtura added sullenly, her brows flat and eyes simmering.

“Interesting, interesting.” The wooly woman nodded, trailing a hairy finger around the rim of her goblet. “Well, I am sorry to inform you that the khagan you are expecting is no longer with us. There has been… a recent change in leadership. The new khagan is not someone your scholars will have heard about. He’s a little different from the others in terms of ideals and order.” 

She tilted her head and there was a sort of playful light dancing in her eyes as she said, “In fact, he is not even a man.”

Suddenly, it clicked. The reason why Aerin thought this wooly woman stood out from the rest.  _ No…  _

She smiled at him, sensing his new revelation as she folded her hands together atop the table and leaned in. “You see, I  _ am _ the Khagan.”

* * *

Iliana was pretty certain her mouth was hanging wide open.

This wooly woman before them… was the Khagan?

Iliana looked to Aerin, her gaze questioning. Shouldn’t they be bowing or something? But he made no move to kneel or do anything, really. Instead, he simply stared at the Khagan, his brows furrowed, like she was a puzzle he could not figure out. Imtura, of course, did not seem inclined to bow either, although that was not unexpected.

The Khagan looked between them. “You seem surprised.”

“You’re a woman,” Iliana stated simply, still in shock. So far, nothing about this meeting was going as expected. “Not that that’s a problem,” she quickly amended. Most of the leaders she knew were women: Ventra Tal Kaelen ruled the orc fleets, Imtura captained her own ship, and Adrina was head of House Starfury.

“I’m a halfling, too” the Khagan replied, drinking from her goblet. When she was done, she licked her lips, tasting the remnants of her wine as she gave a half shrug. “Part, at least. The crossing happened far up my line. Hasn’t been a full human halfling in centuries.”

Beside her, Aerin shook his head, his dark brows furrowed. “Since you’re a woman, wouldn’t that make you a khatun?”

“Khagan, khatun, call me whatever you want. I don’t care much for gendered titles.” The Khagan waved her hand casually, although something in her demeanor shifted. She held her shoulders back and lifted her chin, her posture regal and proud. She gestured to the wooly men and women that sat around them, listening in as they ate. “My people call me their khagan because it is the title I fought for. It is the one that our neighbors respect and the one our enemies fear. Whether that title belongs to a man or a woman should not change its power.”

“You know, I probably shouldn’t,” Imtura said, resting her elbow on the table. “But I think I like you, Majesty.”

The Khagan smiled, although her eyes narrowed to slits of hazel as she tilted her head and inspected them. For a moment, Iliana was reminded of the way a hungry cat looked at a mouse and she felt her muscles tense. She had a feeling that despite the Khagan’s cordial attitude and how…  _ common _ she seemed, they still had to be wary, perhaps even more so than they would have with the old khagan. Although the chances of being recognized had diminished to almost nothing, they lost any advantage they had from Aerin’s recollection of the Vishanti ruler.

“Why didn’t you tell us that you were the khagan when we first sat down?” Iliana asked as she glanced down the table at the wooly people who looked on. Some of them were dressed in leather armor while others were dressed like her―warriors and civilians. Iliana eyed the food that piled their plates with envy. Iliana’s stomach was growling, her hunger a vicious, wild creature, but she forced herself to stay focused.

“Forgive me for not saying so earlier, but I wanted a moment to observe,” the Khagan explained, her voice deep and sonorous. “I have learned that people speak more freely when they do not know who is listening.”

So she was smart, too, and clearly knew how to play the political game. Yes, they definitely needed to be careful with her. Iliana wished she could hear what Aerin thought right now about all of this. She imagined he had some helpful insight.

“I’ve told you about myself, but now I want to hear about you.” She set her large hands upon the table, in full view. Iliana did not have the training Aerin did, but she had witnessed enough tense conversations between two self-proclaimed alphas in many taverns across Morella to recognize the gesture for what it was: a show of dominance. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

Thankfully, Aerin answered first, giving Iliana time to think of her cover. 

“I am Gartho Gillbottle of Riverbend,” Aerin replied and Iliana pressed her lips together to stifle a startled laugh. 

_ Gartho Gillbottle.  _ One name, she knew was meant to tease her, and the other, well, the irony of it was not lost on her. Iliana remembered the story of Gartho the Trickster well. It was a favorite among the patrons of the Dancing Pig Tavern, but also a commoner’s tale. She would have to ask how a royal such as himself came to know “How Gartho Swindled the Elven Queen.”

Aerin gestured to her and Imtura. “And these are two of my companions, an elf and an orc as you requested.”

“Vinestra,” Imtura said by way of introduction, keeping in theme with recalling the names of heroes of legend. Although Iliana did not think that the great orc heroine who was known for her immense strength and sexual prowess was quite as fitting as Gartho. “Of the Redfashti Clan.”

“And you?” The Khagan asked, turning her gaze to Iliana.

“Farin,” she answered, using the name of the Starfury founder she had met in the Undermount crypts since she could not recall any elven heroes off the top of her head. 

“Farin who?” the Khagan prodded. Even she knew the importance of Houses in elven society.

“Just Farin,” Iliana replied smoothly, weaving the truth into her lies. “I also hail from Riverbend. I was orphaned as a child and taken in by a farmer and his wife.”

Even if she was a Nightbloom, that name did not mean much to her. She had hoped to ask the Starfurys more about her House during her visit to Undermount, but her stay had been cut short. She wondered often what kind of people her ancestors were. Were they as cold and pretentious as some of the others she had met? Focused only on status and prestige like Farin Starfury? Were they smart and cunning like the Duskravens? Or brave and noble like Adrina and Valir? Iliana reminded herself to ask Tyril the next time she had a chance, assuming they got out of this.

At this, the Khagan’s thick brows raised. “An elf raised outside Undermount? Fascinating. Have you ever been to the ancient city?”

Iliana nodded, choosing her words carefully to satisfy the Khagan while being cautious of giving too much away. “Twice. One of our other companions is from there.”

“Hm,” the Khagan hummed, slightly dismayed. “Perhaps he should have come instead. I would have liked to hear more about the elven city.”

“Actually, the reason I came is to explain why we are here in your mountains,” Iliana said, glancing at Aerin for guidance, but he seemed content with the conversation so far. The Khagan pressed her lips together but waved her hand for Iliana to continue. “We aren’t spies, Majesty. We’re looking for my brother. We believe he’s traveling through the Frostwhisper Mountains, chasing some legend. He’s a wonderful storyteller, but I think he’s gone looking for his own tales to tell.”

“And your brother, he’s another elf, too?”

“No. A human. Orphaned just like me,” Iliana stated and she felt her chest tighten at the thought of Kade. Was he still somewhere in these mountains? Was he safe? She knew the answer to that was no. As long as he was out there alone, without her to protect him, he would always be in danger.

She shook her head, voice a little hoarse.“But it doesn’t matter that we’re not of the same blood or even the same species. He’s my brother all the same.”

Iliana felt something brush against her knee, the touch almost soothing. Aerin. She glanced over at him and felt something in her warm as she took in his soft expression. Even now, when he was still upset with her, he was trying to be comforting. It was enough to make Iliana feel ashamed for keeping him in the dark. 

She broke his gaze when she heard the Khagan hum, her hazel eyes flicking between them. There was something knowing in her gaze that made Iliana’s cheeks blush violet. She turned away from Aerin, suddenly bashful and aware of all of the eyes trained on them.

“Found families,” the Khagan noted, her voice at once speculative and reflective. “Strange, how the people we find, no matter how different they are, can feel more like kin than our own blood. Rarely do we find relationships stronger than the ones we choose for ourselves.”

Iliana noticed Aerin shift uncomfortably beside her, although he did not comment.

“Exactly,” Iliana said, anxiously wringing her hands together beneath the table. Instinctively, she reached to twist Aerin’s signet ring on her thumb before she remembered that it was no longer there. “So you can understand why I want to find him before he gets himself hurt.”

“And all of you are on this journey?” the Khagan questioned, her brow lifted in suspicion. “I do not see how three humans, two elves, and an orc have come together to search for a human boy.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless you are about to tell me you  _ all _ are from this town you call Riverbend.”

“It’s a long story, Majesty, but we’re a party of adventurers. We met on a mission that went askew,” Aerin explained, neatly folding his hands atop the table.

“Adventurers, hm?” The Khagan turned her sharp eyes upon Aerin, gaze scrutinizing. “How did you get that nasty mark, Gartho? Looks like someone tried to hack your face off.”

Iliana answered for him. “We had a run-in with the Whitetower city guard. Some criminals had escaped from the palace dungeons, so passage through the borders was heavily guarded.”

“The guardsmen are corrupt,” Aerin added, although Iliana knew it pained him to admit it. “They were harassing travelers for coin for passage and we had neither the funds nor the time to appease them.”

“And that’s how you got that mark,” the Khagan concluded with a nod. “Well, it’ll make a nice scar.”

“Thank you,” Aerin replied with a frown, although it sounded more like a question.

“Hm.” The Khagan studied Aerin for a few moments longer, the silence dragging on long enough for Iliana to start to feel uncomfortable. At last, the wooly leader asked, “You know a fair amount about our people, Gartho. Not much, but more than the average Morellian, I imagine.”

There was no question in her statement, but Iliana heard it anyway.  _ How? _

“My mother taught me about the wooly men,” Aerin answered smoothly, not missing a beat. “She’s a scholar.”

“Is she?”

Aerin’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Yes.”

The Khagan studied him for a moment more, then sat back, seemingly satisfied. When her attention turned to Iliana, Iliana fought the urge to stiffen. “Your brother,” the Khagan began. “What is he looking for?”

Iliana was relieved to avoid telling lies and half-truths. “The Old Gods.”

Iliana flinched, every muscle in her body tensing as the Khagan suddenly laughed, the palm of her hand smacking into the table. Iliana’s lips parted as the Khagan continued to laugh and she glanced between Imtura and Aerin, who gave her a stern look that said,  _ I told you it was ridiculous. _

“Your brother is a fool, then,” the Khagan said, clearing her throat. “Many people have tried to find the gods. They either come back as failures or they do not come back at all. Almost everyone dies trying to cross the poison fields. Those who manage to pass are lost in the rainforests of Rysoth.”

_ I suppose that makes us fools too,  _ Iliana thought.

Beside her, Imtura leaned forward. “Hold on, you know of the Old Gods? You believe in them?”

“Believe in the Old Gods?” the Khagan echoed, her thick brows raising. “Orc, some of our greatest customs are attributed to them. The Frostwhisper Mountains were home to the White Wolf. Our ancestors, those that came before the wooly men rode the great beast for years. The earliest evidence of magic can be found deep in a cave painting hidden in one of our highest peaks.” The Khagan shook her head. “To answer your question: Yes. We believe in the Old Gods. But they are gone from this Realm, orc. Your friend will not find them.”

“Wait…” Iliana frowned, her brows knitting together as she recalled everything she had learned from Tyril about the Old Gods. “Are you saying that the White Wolf itself was the god? Not its rider?”

The Khagan gave her an odd look. “You elves worship the Old Gods and know so little about them.” She shook her head. “The great beasts are the gods your brother is searching for, but they will not show themselves without their riders. And they have not picked any from this realm in millennia. They likely never will again, given how badly we have abused their magic.”

Iliana sat back, her mind reeling with this new information. Gods, beasts, riders… it was all too much to process right now. She would have to circle back to that later with the others. And hopefully, Aerin, assuming he would even entertain the idea of searching for them.

The Khagan turned to Imtura. “Vinestra. Tell me. Does that orc queen still have her sights set on taking Whitetower from the humans?”

Iliana raised her brows and she felt Aerin stiffen beside her as they both turned to Imtura. Iliana had heard them discussing a theoretical coup, but she had just written it off as, well, theoretical. She had no idea that Ventra Tal Kaelen might  _ actually  _ be considering taking Whitetower.

Imtura’s expression revealed nothing as she looked from Aerin and Iliana to the Khagan and shrugged. “I cannot say, Majesty. The Queen of Flotilla has talked about it for years, but whether or not she actually intends to do what she says remains to be seen. Besides, the sea is our home. It is where we are happiest, where we are free. Even now, it calls to me. I don’t know what we would do with a palace of stone. So I doubt her dreams will become a reality.”

That last part, Iliana knew, was for Aerin. A little bit of comfort offered for him and his people. And for that small kindness, Iliana was grateful, even if it had nothing to do with her. Aerin was tense beside her but she noticed that he unclenched his jaw and forced his fingers to unfurl, flattening his hands atop his thighs.

“Fascinating. Well, I have learned much from the three of you,” the Khagan said, resting her forearms on the table and lacing her fingers together once more. “More than I could have hoped, honestly. And I feel that you have learned just as much from me.”

Iliana suppressed a frown and nodded along while simultaneously rifling through all of the answers they had given. It did not feel as if they had revealed much about Morella at all. Had they?

“And?” Imtura prompted, a bit of an edge to her voice. “Do you believe us? Believe that we’re just trying to find the landrat’s―er,  _ Farin’s  _ brother and  _ not  _ spy on your kingdom?”

The Khagan’s expression was sealed tight and gave nothing away. Her lip quirked.

“You have given me much to think about. I shall have word sent to you tomorrow morning with my decision.” Like a flip of a coin, her tone shifted from conversational and inquisitive to flat and diplomatic. It left Iliana reeling, wondering if the Khagan’s easy-going nature was real or just part of an act. Iliana had thought their audience was going well, that their answers had been solid. But now… 

She glanced at Aerin, checking to see if he was as discomforted by the Khagan’s sudden change in demeanor, but his face was just as carefully composed as the Vishanti woman’s. There was a sort of hardness about him now though and Iliana thought that the set of his jaw was just a bit too grim for her liking.

The Khagan reached for a large pitcher and with her steady hands, poured wine of the deepest red into their goblets. When she spoke, her tone was hospitable once more. 

“In the meantime, you may drink, eat, and partake in tonight’s festivities.” She waved to a table pressed against the far side of the room where all of the food was set for the picking. “Around midnight, the resident musicians like to break out their instruments and play for us. There are many here who would be glad to show you a good time. The guards will escort you back once the feast has ended, but for now, you should enjoy your night.” 

Iliana blinked in confusion, gazing around at the lively room and surprised by the sudden shift in the conversation. How had they gone from being interrogated to being invited into a night of revelry? Iliana liked to think that she was able to read people fairly well, but the Khagan… it was just one unexpected turn after another, and Iliana could not keep up. In fact, it was starting to seem as if the only thing that was predictable about the Khagan was how unpredictable she could be.

Although their conversation seemed to go well, Iliana could not say that she knew for certain what choice the Khagan might make. The warmth and familiarity with which the ruler treated them now would indicate that she believed their story and even liked them, but there was a small voice in the back of Iliana’s head that told her that she should not let her guard down just yet.

The Khagan filled her own goblet and then held it up to them. “Gartho, Farin, Vinestra. It was a pleasure meeting you three and learning about your kingdom. I hope you found this conversation just as enriching as I did.”

Iliana looked to Aerin, trusting him to guide them through this. He reached for his goblet and lifted it to the Khagan in a gesture his companions understood as,  _ Play along. _

Iliana swallowed the lump in her throat, but followed suit, lifting her goblet in unison with Imtura as Aerin said, “It was a most enlightening conversation, Majesty.”

Iliana waited for the Khagan to drink and even went as far as to sniff the wine for any evidence of poison. Finding nothing of concern, she cautiously held the goblet to her lips and drank. It was sweet as it was strong, a dangerous mix for her and Aerin, and tasted faintly of cherries. She met the Khagan’s bright gaze over the rim of her goblet as she lowered, running her tongue over the bottom of her lip to chase the sweetness. 

Just those few mouthfuls had left Iliana’s belly warm and her mind sated, but she noticed that Imtura’s goblet was already half-empty by the time she set it down.

The Khagan, on the other hand, drained all of her wine and stood, a saccharine smile on her wooly face. “I must make my rounds with my people, but you may rest assured knowing I will have your decision no later than the coming dawn.” She nodded to them, then turned to leave. “Until then, good evening, Morellians.”

They watched as the Khagan walked away to mingle with her people. Even her bronze warriors had dispersed across the room, not to guard its inhabitants, but join them at the dinner tables. It was as if no one cared anymore about what Iliana, Aerin, or Imtura―the accused spies―did. Iliana did not know if that was a good or bad thing, but it certainly was not normal.

Before Iliana could ask any questions, Aerin took his plate and stood. He caught her gaze, looked to the wooly men surrounding them, and then looked to the table at the far end of the room where all of the food lay, which was sparsely populated. Iliana nodded in understanding and nudged Imtura’s shoulder as she retrieved her plate and followed Aerin to the serving table, away from prying eyes and listening ears.

“So now what?” Iliana whispered as she and Imtura came to stand beside Aerin. He used a two-pronged carving fork to pile slices of smoked venison onto Iliana’s plate, then Imtura’s, and finally his own before he spoke.

“First, we should eat,” he said, scooping herbed red potatoes onto their plates. “We need the strength.”

Imtura grunted in agreement, reaching to pile on even more meat to her plate. “A great idea, Gartho.”

Iliana pursed her lips, subtly glancing around to find the Khagan in the crowd. Iliana spotted the ruler sitting at another dining table, conversing with a group of warriors. “What do you think she’s going to do?”

“I can’t tell,” Aerin admitted. “Her entire strategy seems to be being unpredictable and catching others unaware. It’s not an unconventional tactic among rulers, but it is difficult to use. If you aren’t careful, others will see you as mad. But she’s playing herself off as the people’s ruler. That’s why she met with us surrounded by the wooly men and women. So switching from friendly and warm to cold and guarded―especially to outsiders―works exceptionally well given her kingdom’s history of isolation.” He frowned, his brows knitting as he served some sort of pale root. “Whatever game she’s playing at, she’s good.”

A low snarl sounded from the back of Imtura’s throat. “What good are you for if you can’t even tell whether or not she’s going to kill us?”

Iliana’s lips parted.  _ “Imtura.” _

Aerin glared, exhaling sharply. “My goal was to get through that without getting us immediately killed. I can guarantee you that the Khagan would not have been nearly so hospitable if Mal had called her a furball to her face. You seem to forget that the wooly men are stronger than orcs and extremely efficient warriors. Just because we are surrounded by civilians in a dining hall does not mean they would have hesitated to execute us on the spot for making a misstep.”

In unison, Iliana and Imtura glanced around, noting that all of the warriors present were still armed from head to toe, even as they ate, drank, and laughed. Some of them even arm-wrestled and showed off their weapons.

“So what do we do?” Iliana asked as she turned back to Aerin.

“Exactly what the Khagan said to do,” he said grimly. As they reached the end of the serving table, he gazed around the room, his hazel eyes as steely and calculating as Iliana had ever seen them. “We play along. Eat, drink, and enjoy ourselves. But keep an eye out. We aren’t out of the woods yet. I have a feeling that this is another test.”

Iliana turned, following his line of sight. As her gaze fell once more on the bright-eyed Khagan, Iliana gripped her plate so tightly she feared it might break and tried to push down the chilling feeling that they were trapped in a den of wolves.   
  



	12. Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In vino veritas

It had been a while since Aerin had last felt as drunk as he did now.

Even with a belly full of food, the Vishanti wine burned through his veins and made his mind delightfully hazy. The entire dining hall was enveloped in a sort of warm glow, including its occupants. At some point―Aerin did not know how long ago―several of the wooly people had brought out their instruments, lutes and woodwinds, and began to play jaunty tunes, their music adding to the jubilant atmosphere of the feast.

Aerin watched from where he leaned against the granite wall as Imtura arm-wrestled a hulking Vishanti warrior. The wooly men and women appeared to have taken a liking to Imtura and her blunt charm, challenging her to drinking contests and shows of strength. Earlier, one of them had even let her swing their war hammer around. Aerin noted that the warrior was lucky Imtura was not a thief like Mal, because judging by the envious gleam in her eye, he had a feeling she would have swiped the hammer the moment she had a chance.

Iliana sat beside the orc princess with her chin cupped in her palm as she looked on, a small smile on her lips. Aerin wondered if she even knew that she was doing that. Smiling, so freely as if it cost her nothing. He supposed it didn’t. Growing up in Riverbend had undoubtedly been an entirely different experience from growing up in the palace in Whitetower. Aerin imagined that normal people did not have to hide their every expression or carefully craft the appropriate one like he had been trained to do in court. 

Back in the palace, a smile like that, especially if given to someone else, could have meant you favored one lord or lady more than others, which often upset the others. Even the royal family had to play the political game―keep everyone happy because even if they aren’t important now, a time will come when every bit of support would be invaluable. 

Aerin never had the luxury of being able to give smiles like that. Real ones. At least not when other people were around. He had always known that his love would be a bargaining chip, that whatever marriage was eventually arranged for him would be to secure support from one of the Lords of Whitetower, either for one of his father’s plans or Baldur’s when he became king.

It was one of the things that had drawn him in with Iliana. She had smiled at him without expecting anything in return and he had been able to do the same, free from repercussions. And when she had kissed him―Aerin felt his cheeks flush just at the thought of it. In the last few days, he had not allowed himself to think of that moment. It was too distracting. But now… Aerin glanced at the Khagan, who was still conversing with the same group of women he had seen her with the last time he had checked. He could spare a moment to think.

_ When she had kissed him, _ surrounded by so much hidden life and beauty in the heart of the Deadwood, that had been the first time he wondered what it would have been like to choose for himself, to not just be the prince with power but to not be a prince at all. That had not been his first kiss, but it had been the first one to actually mean something to him, even if it did not make sense. She was just a common girl, not even a human. And yet, she had seen  _ him,  _ not Baldur―his older brother, the Crown Prince. Him. 

That was the first time he felt something like happiness. The first time he felt  _ wanted. _ He wondered if he would ever feel that way again. Or perhaps that had been his shot, the one good thing that was meant to convince him to turn back before it was too late. He wished he had.

But perhaps one good thing was not enough to turn him. Just like one bad thing had not been the sole reason for his corruption. It had been many things―both internal and external―that had occurred over the course of many years. He could not even say that those things had culminated in some sort of breaking point. Rather it was more like all of these little things had shaped him over time until he no longer realized what bad decisions he had made until after he had made them, until he realized afterward that there  _ was  _ another option aside from those that he had been molded to choose.

But if that was the case, then perhaps the road back was the same way. One good thing or one good choice could not undo all of the bad. Maybe it was like the alchemical laws he had once read about: equal exchange. He did not know if he believed in alchemy―magic and the Light, sure―but maybe alchemists were on to something with that law. 

He could only wonder how many of the decisions he had made now were the right ones and how far along he was on his path to―path to what? Redemption? No, Aerin did not think he deserved that. Ever. Perhaps… it was his path back to the beginning. A place where he could start anew. Hopefully. He prayed that he was making some sort of progress. He certainly could not tell how much he had changed, if at all. 

Ah, and therein lay the rub: there was no way to tell how much progress has been made while still being in the thick of it. It was only until after a great deal had happened that the effects became clear.

There were times when he still felt like following the Dreadlord’s plan was the only right course of action for him, times where he wished things had still worked out like they were supposed to and he could assume his role as the Shadow King. If he managed to keep his head, he could have done so much good for his kingdom with that power. But he now understood that some things―even good things―were not worth the price he had been willing to pay or the sins he committed. That realization had been a gradual thing. And if he could learn that over the past few months, well, then maybe he could learn other things in time too. 

Aerin swallowed hard, snapping himself out of his thoughts. He was getting too deep into his own philosophy that his head started to ache. Aerin closed his eyes and rubbed his temples for relief.  _ This  _ was why he did not drink.

When he opened his eyes and looked up again, Aerin’s heart jumped up into his throat. Iliana was looking at him, her emerald gaze bright in the firelight. Aerin straightened, raising his brows as if to ask,  _ What’s wrong? _

Iliana turned away, settling her hand atop Imtura’s shoulder as she leaned in and said something. The orc captain merely nodded, not turning her attention away from her arm-wrestling match. Aerin shifted on his feet as Iliana stood and began to cross the dining hall to where he stood. He fiddled with his hands, suddenly unsure what to do with them. At last, he settled on lacing them behind his back where they could not be seen.

As Iliana approached, he saw that color was high on her cheeks and her eyes were slightly glazed from the alcohol. Both Aerin and Iliana were much lighter than Imtura and the rest of the wooly people, and the wine they were given was especially potent so it was no surprise that small amounts of the bittersweet drink affected them more strongly than the others. 

“I thought you told us to play along,” Iliana said as she came to stand before him. “And yet here you are, alone at the edge of the room, looking as if smoke is about to come out of your ears because of how hard you’re thinking.”

Aerin frowned. “I’m fine here.”

“Standing by your lonesome?”

“It’s what I always did at palace events. Soirees, dances, dinner parties… When I wasn’t obligated to speak to some lord,” Aerin shrugged nonchalantly. “I stood off to the side. No one even noticed.”

Now it was Iliana’s turn to frown. “I noticed you.”

Despite himself, Aerin smiled slightly, just because with her, he could. No consequences. “So you did.”

Iliana studied his face, her gaze traveling over his features. Aerin was wondering what she saw there when she asked, “Does your face still hurt? I guess all of that business was for nothing.”

Right. She was not looking at  _ him, _ but rather the nasty mark that disguised his face.

“It is better to be over prepared than under. But truthfully, I don’t really feel it,” Aerin admitted, brushing his fingers along the rough scab that covered the right side of his face. “It’s probably because of the wine.”

“That is strong stuff,” Iliana noted, glancing back at the dining tables littered with goblets of that cherry wine. As she looked on, Aerin noticed the small wisps of dark hair that clung to sides of her temples like the curling vines of the morning glories that decorated the Whitetower botanical gardens. She nudged his shoulder with her knuckles. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep you company. I can only watch so many arm-wrestling matches.”

Aerin shook his head, waving his hand to the space beside him. “By all means.”

“Not here.” Iliana chewed her lip and Aerin followed her gaze to a bench pressed against the wall in a less populated area of the room, still within eyesight but far from curious ears. When she turned back to him, her face was serious. Cautious. “We… We need to talk.”

Aerin had a feeling he knew exactly what they needed to talk about. The Old Gods and the Empire of Ash. He felt his own expression darken and he nodded. “Yes. We do.”

He followed her to the bench, stopping once to fill two goblets with the Vishanti wine. “It’s for appearances,” Iliana said under her breath as she handed him the metal cup. “You don’t have to drink it.”

Aerin nodded but took a sip anyway. There was a sudden jitteriness in his nerves that made him want to run and hide at once. He was not sure if that was yet another effect of the wine―alcohol had made him sluggish, never anxious like this―or if this feeling had something to do with Iliana. That sip turned into a mouthful before Iliana laid her hand over his and encouraged him to lower it.

“Easy there, princeling,” she cautioned so that only he could hear. Without breaking eye contact, she nodded her head in the direction they knew the Khagan sat. “Don’t get too deep in your barrels just yet. It’s like you said. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Right. He was being foolish. It was as if the moment she had sauntered up to him, he had forgotten that they weren’t just at some normal feast. They were surrounded by potential enemies. Aerin felt his already flushed skin warm with embarrassment. He was grateful when Iliana did not chide him further and continued on her way to the bench.

They sat in silence for a few moments, simply observing the feast from afar. Aerin looked down at his lap, studying his distorted reflection in the hyperbolic surface of the bronze chalice. His gaze strayed to Iliana’s hands and he noticed that she continued to fiddle with her left thumb. Amidst the haze that was clouding his mind, he recalled that that was where she often wore his old signet ring. The fact that she still wore it―that she even still had it… She did not know what that did to him.  _ He  _ did not even know what it did to him.

“So,” Iliana started, breaking the silence between them. “The Old Gods.”

“And the Ash Empire,” Aerin prompted, his brows lowering.

“And the Ash Empire,” Iliana sighed and nodded, turning her goblet of wine in her slender fingers. 

Aerin noticed that they were peppered with callouses and silvery blue scars. Some looked like little stars on the back of her hands while others were clearly made from the slash of a blade. He remembered the way the ridge of her knuckles stood in sharp relief when she gripped her bow, the way flecks of blood contrasted with her pearlescent skin when she used that brutal-looking gauntlet, the way her fingers skillfully twirled her blade in the middle of a sword fight. These were a fighter’s hands. A survivor’s.

He wondered if they had ever known softness. 

For a moment, he could picture the way his mother’s silks would slip through Iliana’s fingers, like water in a river. He had felt them many times—fisted in the fabric of his cloak when they fled from guards, wrapped around his forearm to help him up countless times, pressed against his broken nose as her Light healed it over. But the time he thought about now was when he had held them between his own, hidden in the middle of that forest glen. 

_ I feel there are more trials to come. For all of us… But you’re strong, Iliana. Don’t lose hope. _

Aerin cleared his throat, lifting his gaze to hers. “I’m listening.”

He watched as her brows drew together for a fraction of a second and for a moment, she looked afraid. Then she took a deep breath and told him everything.

Aerin tried to keep his own expression in check while Iliana recounted her dreams of mysterious figures, burning cities, terrible creatures, and ominous warnings. As she spoke, dread pooled in his stomach, cold, sluggish, and unnerving. Admittedly, he did not know what to make of the secret society of watchers that the robed figure spoke of or how the figure came to Iliana’s dreams, but he was willing to bet that a similar thing had happened to Kade. Perhaps that was what the bard had meant when he said something was calling to him. But then again, Kade had said it was more of a feeling, not voices or visions.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Iliana asked softly after a short silence lapsed between them in the wake of her explanation. She was twisted around to face him, her legs tucked beneath her and an elbow resting on the back of the bench, her now-empty goblet hanging between her fingers. Over the course of her explanation, she had steadily drained the whole thing. Aerin had considered taking the wine away, but judging by her anxious expression, he figured that maybe she needed the drink just as much as he did. 

Aerin’s brows furrowed as he sat back, shoving his hand through his hair. His dark curls were getting so tangled and unruly, his fingers snagged, and for a moment, Aerin thought of how horrified his father would be to see him in such a state of dishevelment. “Why would I think that?” 

“I don’t know.” She shrugged, worrying her lip between her teeth. “Having strange visions isn’t exactly normal.”

Perhaps it was the wine that made him bold. Aerin remarked dryly but not cruelly, “You seem to have forgotten that you’re talking to the man who heard Dreadlord in his head and spoke to an Onyx Shard for years.”

Iliana let out a startled laugh and her gaze lifted from her lap to meet his. Her expression was almost sheepish as she said, “Yeah. I guess you have a point.”

Aerin gave her a rueful smile that quickly gave way to another frown as he wondered why she was telling him this now. Was it because she actually wanted to or because she got caught and now felt obligated? Aerin studied her expression, looking for some sort of tell as he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

He did not know what to make of her expression when she grimaced and raised her chalice to her lips. Her frown only became more pronounced as she remembered that she had already drained it. Even though he knew better, Aerin offered up his own drink, but Iliana waved it off.

“No, I…” She shook her head as if to clear herself from a daze and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I think I’ve probably already had way too much.”

Aerin waited, expectant. Maybe it was a petty thing, but he still wanted to know why. He understood deception had become this unspoken game between them, with secrets as their currency. He fooled her, she had tricked him right back, and ever since then, they had been locked in this meticulous dance, skirting along the fine line that lay between trusting each other and staying safe.

And honestly, Aerin was tired of it. He did not understand why those two things, safety and trust, had to be mutually exclusive events. Maybe for other people, they weren’t.

Again.  _ This _ was why he did not drink.

“I don’t know.” Iliana sighed and looked away, her gaze roaming around the room. Aerin had a feeling that she was scanning the perimeter just to have something else to look at beside him. “I guess… I thought that if you knew, you would leave.”

“I was not aware that I had that choice,” Aerin scoffed although he instantly regretted it as Iliana’s lips parted, her face stricken. He had not intended for it to sound so…  _ bitter.  _ “I didn’t mean…”

He shook his head. He did not know what he did or didn’t mean. 

“Aerin, you know, I…” Iliana swallowed, glancing down at her lap. “I wouldn’t blame you. If you didn’t want to be a part of this. If you left.” She shook her head, her voice growing quiet. “I would not blame you in the slightest.”

Aerin mulled her words over as he studied her profile, perplexed. When she had broken him out of his cell in Whitetower, the unspoken condition of his escape had been that he was only free so that he could help her find Kade. Iliana had even said that once all of this was over, she would take him back to the king to continue serving his sentence. And she was right to do so. This mission did not change anything—the crimes he committed would not be washed away so easily.

But now, the things that Iliana was saying… They didn’t make any sense. Didn’t she want him to pay for his crimes? Isn’t that what he deserved?

“If what you said about the Ash Empire coming is true, then I guess we don’t really have a choice. This is bigger than all of us.” Aerin could not help but think of his own kingdom. Yes,  _ his _ kingdom, because whether he was a disgraced prince or not, Morella was still his home and his first thoughts would always be about its people. “So it doesn’t matter what I want. And even if it did, nothing would change because what I want is to protect my kingdom.”

Surely his father did not know about the Ash Empire―there was absolutely no way he could possibly find out. Which meant that Morella sat undefended and unaware of potentially the most dangerous threat it had ever known, even more so than the Dreadlord and his Shadow Court. How long did they have before the Ash Empire arrived from wherever it was that they hailed? If Aerin managed to warn his father, would the king be able to raise an army in time? Would his father even believe him? And would he even get the opportunity to warn his father if they could possibly be executed tomorrow? There were so many questions― _ too many _ questions―spinning around Aerin’s head, which was already muddled from the wine.

_ Easy,  _ he chided himself, forcing his thoughts to settle and fade into background noise.  _ One thing at a time. Think of what you  _ can  _ do now and focus on that.  _ Aerin supposed that there nothing he could actually do now while they waited for the Khagan’s sentence, nothing except stay alive and play along.

“So you’ll help me then?” Iliana asked, her eyes wide and hopeful. “You’ll help me find my brother  _ and _ the gods?”

It was no longer a question. How could it be, when the safety of his homeland was at stake? “Of course.”

Iliana’s lips split into a brilliant grin. “Thank the gods. I honestly don’t know if we’d be able to figure out the rest of Kade’s direction without you.”

Aerin let himself relax a little, relieved to find that the worst of their conversation was over. He settled into a more comfortable position, shifting to better face Iliana as he planted his elbow against the back of the bench, mirroring her position, and drank from his goblet. Another wave of warmth spread through him, dispersing some of the icy dread that took up residence within the pit of his stomach.

“You just want to use what’s in my head,” he accused, although his tone was only light and teasing.

“Oh, you’re not too bad of a swordsman.” Iliana shrugged before folding both of her arms on the back of the bench and slumping to rest her chin atop them. “Although maybe that’s just because I’m such a good teacher.”

Aerin raised a brow, tilting his head. “I didn’t know you had such a large ego.”

She lightly kicked his shin. “Large as it may be, I think that I’ve earned my ego.”

“And _ I  _ think  that that’s the wine talking,” Aerin replied coolly. He lifted his chalice to his mouth, then paused to remark, “What, you’ve had two glasses and you’re already gushing about yourself? I didn’t realize the people of Riverbend had such low tolerances.”

Iliana’s eyes narrowed. “I could drink you under a table, princeling. As could any Riverbend babe and their mother.” 

Then, for emphasis, she reached out, laying her hand over his before he could take another pull from his cup and guiding it to her lips. Aerin’s breath hitched in his throat and his mouth went dry as she drank, a mischievous glimmer in her glazed eyes as she held his gaze over the rim of the chalice. His eyes fell to the slender curve of her neck, nearly hidden amongst the dark fur of her new clothes as her throat bobbed. The skin there was tantalizingly smooth and blessedly unmarred now that any traces of the bruises left behind by the Whitetower prison guards had completely faded.

Iliana’s forefinger tapped his knuckle and he pulled the cup away, barely registering that it was only half-full now as she swiped her tongue along her full bottom lip, which had been stained an even deeper red from the wine, to chase the bittersweet taste. Aerin felt his cheeks flush and he quickly averted his gaze, ducking to set the goblet on the ground.

“What’s the matter?” Iliana teased, resting her head on her arms once more. She reminded Aerin of the lazy cat that slunk around the palace kitchens and spent its days sunbathing in the shifting squares of sunlight that traveled across the pantry over time. “You don’t want to see what us Riverbend girls are made of?”

“I think one of us ought to keep their head,” he replied, even though his words felt thick and sluggish on his tongue. “We’ve most certainly already had too much to drink. And Imtura…” Aerin turned his gaze unto the room of wooly men. Imtura sat at a table in the thick of the crowd, once again inspecting the same war hammer she had been marveling at early on. Several empty wine goblets sat on their sides, scattered across the table before the orc. Aerin could only hope that not all of them belonged to her. “I don’t think Imtura’s got eyes on anything other than that hunk of metal.”

Beside him, Iliana followed his line of sight to the Khagan, who had moved on to join with a small circle of wooly children who sat near the musicians as they played their joyous music. Aerin’s mind was still boggled by how different the Vishanti people were from what he had learned and remembered.

“Well, you said to play along,” Iliana reminded him. “You can’t deny that Imtura has taken the Khagan’s instructions to heart. She’s enjoying her night.”

“She certainly is.” Aerin turned back to face her and he tilted his head curiously. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Enjoying your night.”

Iliana lifted her head, brows raising as if she found his question to be confounding. “Well, aside from our audience with the Khagan…” She studied him for a few moments, her gaze slowly trailing over his face before she responded, “Yes. I think I am.”

Aerin did not know why that made his chest warm.

They settled into a comfortable silence, simply listening to the music and the chatter of voices bouncing off the cave walls. As time progressed, Aerin felt his head become even cloudier and his body felt lighter, less corporeal. They had contentedly sat through three songs before Iliana suddenly started snickering, hiding her face in her arms as her shoulders shook.

Aerin’s brows rose. Did he miss something? “What is it?”

He heard Iliana snort before she looked up, laughter still lining her lovely features as she said,  _ “Gartho Gillbottle.” _

Before he could stop himself―not that he really wanted to―Aerin grinned. “I thought you might like that. Do you know the story of Gartho the Trickster?”

Iliana quirked a dark eyebrow. “Do  _ I  _ know about Gartho? I practically heard ‘How Gartho Swindled the Elven Queen’ every night back in the Riverbend taverns. The  _ real _ question is, how does a fancy royal such as yourself know about Gartho? It’s a commoner’s folktale.”

Aerin suppressed a groan as he recalled precisely what series of misfortunes led him to learn the popular trickster tale. “That is a ridiculous story in and of itself.”

Iliana nudged his shin. “Go on.”

“It’s about Baldur.” All the fascinating stories usually were.

Iliana’s face fell. “Oh. You don’t have to―”

“No,” Aerin interjected, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I think it’s… It’s okay. It’s not… a bad one.”

It wasn’t a  _ great _ one either, but good memories with Baldur were few and far between. Aerin felt Iliana’s hand, warm and gentle, settle on his knee as if to comfort him. When he looked up, he saw that she had shifted to mirror his posture, with her elbow still propped up on the bench and the side of her head resting against her knuckles.

“I had just turned seventeen,” Aerin began, blankly staring at Iliana’s hand on his leg as he dredged up the old memory through the swirling mess of his hazy mind. “I was about to return to my rooms after the celebration dinner when Baldur stopped me. He said that if I was turning into a real man, then I had to  _ celebrate _ like a real one.”

“Oh, no,” Iliana remarked, scrunching up her nose. “I think I know where this is going.”

“Oh, yes,” Aerin huffed, a rueful twist in his smile. “Baldur took me to a tavern that laid somewhere between the Market District and the Nooks and Crannies. We were disguised, of course. And it wasn’t until after we had settled in and Baldur had us set up with drinks that I realized that this wasn’t just any tavern. It also doubled as a… house of ill repute.”

“Your brother took you to a brothel for your birthday? How does Baldur even know where―No, that sounds about right.” Iliana grimaced, cringing before her eyes blew wide. “Oh gods, don’t tell me. Did you? Had you ever? Not that there’s anything wrong if you did. I have a lot of respect for those men and women―”

_ “Iliana,”  _ Aerin interjected, mortified. His face felt like it was on fire, burning a thousand degrees

“What? It’s just a question!” She tilted her head, green eyes bright and curious as she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you?”

Aerin wanted to crawl under one of the dining tables and hide. Why were they talking about this? “No,” he answered bashfully. “I didn’t. I sat in the tavern and drank by myself while Baldur went upstairs.  _ That’s _ where I heard about Gartho.”

“What an exciting birthday,” Iliana remarked dryly, shaking her head. “Drinking alone while your brother has an orgy upstairs.”

“Iliana,  _ please.” _ Aerin made a choking sound. Gods, was she always this vulgar when she was drunk? He really did not need to think about what Baldur did when he snuck out into the slums.

“Sorry, sorry. I know. Bad mental image. I got it too,” Iliana gagged, scrunching up her nose in disgust. “Well. Your brother definitely missed the mark on that one. But it sounds like he tried, maybe. At least a little.”

“Yeah. Sometimes he did.”

Aerin felt it again, that suffocating weight that pressed in on his chest, threatening to crush him. It would be so easy to give in, to start spiraling down into that pit of despair and regret that he had been dancing around for so long. He had almost fallen in earlier today, overwhelmed by this foreign place that was somehow riddled with so many memories. Aerin almost reached for the chalice of wine to stem his flow of thoughts, but instead he focused on the fingers that absently traced shapes atop his knee, the sensation slight and muffled by the thick fabric of his pants, but still there nonetheless.

When he lifted his gaze, he found that Iliana was staring at him, something thoughtful and molten in her gaze. 

“What is it?” he asked.

Iliana cleared her throat, her cheeks darkening as she glanced away. “I was just wondering about something. I’m probably overstepping―no, I definitely am. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to or if I’m making you uncomfortable, but… Well, have you ever? You know…” She lifted her hand from his leg, fluttering her fingers around as if that would help him understand her meaning.

Luckily, he did. Aerin thought he might feel flustered by her question, vague as it was, but he wasn’t. Already he had quickly become desensitized to this topic. Perhaps it was because of the alcohol or maybe it was because it was Iliana he was talking to, and there was something about her that always made him a little less afraid, a little more bold.

“No. There was never anyone who… There was never anyone,” Aerin answered. He watched her carefully, gauging her expression. “Does that surprise you?”

Iliana’s eyes flicked between his own, expression unreadable. Aerin felt something stutter in his chest as she leaned in, her gaze intent. “Yes.”

Aerin raised a brow but he didn’t lean away. “It does?”

Iliana smirked. “Are you surprised that I’m surprised?”

“Iliana.” Aerin rolled his eyes, but replied anyway. “Yes.”

Iliana stared at him for several long moments, then looked down. Her arm fell into her lap, long fingers tracing the scored wood of the bench. “Do you remember that last night in Whitetower? Before everything… happened?”

“You mean the night after you arrived from Undermount?”

“Yes, I…” She trailed off, chewing on the inside of her cheek. As the silence stretched on, Aerin thought that perhaps she was not going to finish her train of thought, but then she continued. “It’s foolish, but I waited for a long time before I went to bed. Hoping you might come by. I even thought about trying to find you, but I didn’t know my way around. And if anyone saw some commoner elf roaming around the palace at night or waiting outside your door…”

“It would be a scandal,” Aerin concluded with a frown. She was right. Even Baldur knew better than to indulge in his more salacious pursuits while on palace grounds. There were some things that even the Crown Prince could not get away with.

“Yeah.” Iliana nodded, pressing her lips together. “And besides. You weren’t… we weren’t…”

Aerin felt like he was barely breathing. He had no idea… He knew this was dangerous territory that they were crossing into. Until now, they had not yet discussed whatever it was that laid between them, the past that had made each of their betrayals so effective and yet so much more painful.

Aerin could leave it at that and let the past remain in the past. It would be easier for both of them, to move on and forget that this thing between them had ever happened. Better to look forward to the trouble that lay ahead.

But she had offered up a truth, and Aerin found himself wanting to give her one in return. “I wanted to,” he admitted, noting the way she inhaled a little unevenly and her fingers stilled in their wandering across the wood. “To go to you, I mean. But I couldn’t. It would have only made what I was about to do that much worse.” 

Aerin shook his head, his fingers absently brushing along the leather material of his doublet, right over the center of his chest. “And even if I had… we couldn’t have.”

He didn’t need to explain why. He knew Iliana understood. She had seen the Nerada Stone that fateful day in the palace and if she had forgotten, she certainly saw the scars the Stone had left behind. If he had gone to her like he had wanted, she would have seen it and his treachery would have been revealed just a day too soon.

“It wasn’t all a lie, then?” Iliana whispered, at last lifting her face to meet his gaze. Aerin hated how hesitant she looked, how cautious and full of doubt her eyes were as they beheld him. How deep did these wounds go?

“No. You were… an unexpected surprise, Iliana,” he admitted, the words flowing out before he could stop them. It was as if now that he started sharing, he couldn’t stop―didn’t  _ want _ to stop. “A good one. I was just too far gone. But… it was real. Or at least I had wanted it to be.”

This was foolish, stupid, and reckless. There was a possible execution hanging over their heads and here they were, hopelessly drunk and babbling. Aerin’s insides felt like they were full of the little star-like bubbles that floated in flutes of his mother’s favorite sparkling wine. Everything was saturated in warm light, shimmering and golden. It made his surroundings seem softer, including Iliana, who was staring at him with her brows drawn, perplexed. 

Aerin fought to reconcile the daring adventurer he knew Iliana to be with the young intoxicated woman that sat before him now, dressed in fine furs with her hair tied back and styled with braids. Aerin had thought that she always looked lovely, but now she looked _real_. For as long as he had known her, Iliana had always felt like she had come from another world. Not because she had grown up all the way in Riverbend―even though that might have been part of the reason―but because she was like one of the heroes he’d read about in legends. Strong, brave, and unyielding. As terrifying as she was admirable. 

But now, she was just a girl, real and tangible.

Iliana sucked in a sharp breath. “What are you doing?”

Aerin stilled, his hand hovering in the space between them, fingers outstretched as if to reach for one of the braids that spilled over her shoulder. Aerin hadn’t even realized he had moved.

“Your hair looks pretty,” he stated stupidly, the words falling from his lips before he could stop them. He pulled his hand back, fingers curling into his palm as he let it sit on his lap once more.

“Oh,” was all she said and Aerin tried not to think that she almost looked disappointed. Had he said something wrong? “Thanks.”

Before Aerin could respond, Iliana took his hand between her own and brought it up to her hair. She ran her thumb over his knuckles, encouraging them to unfurl. Aerin felt the locks of her hair brush against his fingertips, silken and black as pitch, as if it were spun from the night sky itself.

“You can touch it,” she teased, lip curling. “I won’t bite.”

Aerin glanced between his hand, cupped between Iliana’s, and her face, then took one of the braids between his fingers. He ran the pad of his thumb along the smooth ridge and huffed a laugh. “You think Imtura will braid my hair if I ask?”

Iliana smiled, the tension between them easing. She reached out with one hand, gently tugging on the edge of one of his curls. “It might be long enough for a small one. But it’s like Imtura said. You have to earn them.”

Aerin arched a brow, subconsciously leaning into her touch. “You don’t think I have?”

Iliana hummed, looping his hair around her finger like a coil. “Maybe one. A couple more lessons with me, though, and you might be able to earn a few more in no time.”

“There’s that ego again,” Aerin replied, something in him turning molten when Iliana smiled and laughed, glancing away. As her gaze roamed across the room, they snagged on something Aerin could not see.

“She’s watching us,” Iliana said softly, tilting her head back toward Aerin’s. He did not need to ask to know she was talking about the Khagan. Before he could angle his head, she reached up, pressing her fingers against his jaw. “Don’t look. Act normal.”

Aerin’s eyes flicked between hers and he nodded slowly, his attention shifting to something far more dangerous than the unpredictable Khagan. He did not realize how close he and Iliana were until his gaze dropped, lingering on her lips. So close.

It would only take the subtlest of movements and he would be there, kissing her, just as he had longed to do ever since the last time her lips had parted from his. When he looked up again, he saw that Iliana’s eyes were half-lidded, her emerald gaze meeting his through her dark lashes. He could feel her breath on his cheeks, could smell the cherry wine mingling in the space between them. Aerin became hyper aware of her fingers splayed out across his jaw, the hand that still held his by her hair, and the thumb that brushed over the inside of his wrist in a beckoning motion, as if to say,  _ Come here. Come closer. Closer. _

“Iliana,” he whispered, his voice filled with a tenderness so raw and rare, he felt as if it had been torn from some hidden place far inside him. The hand he had tangled in her hair shifted so that his palm instead pressed against the side of her neck, his thumb sweeping across the edge of her jaw. He heard her breath hitch, saw the pupils of her glazed eyes blow wide, nearly drowning out the green. Her fingers followed his, covering them where they rested against her burning skin.

_ Think about what we could do together. What we could be together. You could be the Dark Prince of this realm… and I could be yours. _

Just like he had been then, Aerin was now on the verge of surrender, of yielding to this strange woman who had seemingly come out of nowhere and turned every plan he had ever had on its end. But this time, Iliana was the one who asked the weighted question.

“Can I ever trust you?” Iliana breathed although Aerin had a feeling she was not asking him. 

_ Yes, _ he wanted to say.  _ Of course. _

But then he wondered if that was true. Aerin thought of their escape from Whitetower, the shadow that had surged through his veins. He had not felt it since then, but it was still there. He could feel it, like a fire burning in his chest, waiting for some kindling to burn. He did not yet know how to call upon it, but he wasn’t exactly sure he ever wanted to. What if he became corrupted again? No, it was best to leave it alone.

_ Remember that night together in the forest glade? Our kiss? That was real, Aerin. And it’s still real. _

Aerin swallowed, uncertain. He leaned in just as Iliana tilted her head up, their noses brushing.

_ You’d still have me? Even as I am? _

He winced.

“Is the Khagan still looking?” Aerin asked.

Iliana blinked, a crease forming between her brows as she looked away, scanning the room for a moment. “No.”

“Good.”

“Aerin,” Iliana whispered, just as he pulled away, his hand falling back into his lap. He watched her eyelashes flutter, surprise, then hurt, crossing her features as she watched him retreat.

“We’ve had a lot to drink,” he said softly, apologetically, even as his chest ached. “We shouldn’t do something we might regret.”

Iliana’s dark brows knitted as she pulled her hands away and he read the unspoken question that lingered in the space between them.  _ You would regret me? _

But in the end, she only nodded. “We should stay focused. Well… as focused as we can be.”

“Right,” he agreed, offering her a smile although he sensed that they both knew it was false and bitter on his lips. Aerin turned, angling his body so that for the first time in a while, he no longer faced Iliana but the rest of the room. He was about to sigh when Iliana shifted beside him. He felt her arm loop through his as she fit her head into the crook of his neck and shoulder. Brows raised, he looked down at her.

“S’this okay?” she asked, gazing up at him through her lashes.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, but nodded. “Yeah.”

Iliana nodded against him and turned her attention back to the rest of the room. Aerin silently studied her for a few moments more, then did the same. But as he watched the wooly men and women feast, Aerin could not help but feel the weight of regret, heavy in his heart, for the choices he did not make.

* * *

Iliana awoke to a hissing sound and a splitting headache. Her head rested on something solid and warm, but her body was stretched out on the cold stone floor of her cell. Something tickled her nose―wisps of fur, she realized―and she sat up with a wince. Oh, she had  _ certainly  _ overdone it with the wine. 

Iliana startled slightly when she saw what―or rather  _ who _ ―had served as her pillow. Aerin was laid out beside her, still deep asleep. Iliana could feel the imprint of his clothing on her cheek and she rubbed at it with the back of her hand. A fur-trimmed blanket had been thrown over them, much warmer and thicker than the wool ones they had been provided earlier. In the distance, she could hear Imtura’s heavy snores.

“You’re awake,” a low voice stated and Iliana looked up. 

Tyril stood by the door to their cell, watching her and the sleeping prince with an amused albeit slightly discomforted expression. Behind him, Nia and Mal looked on from their cell with similar expressions. Behind them, Imtura slumbered peacefully on the ground. 

Iliana glanced back at Aerin and blushed. Last night… 

“What happened last night?” Tyril asked softly as Iliana slowly got to her feet, careful not to wake Aerin.

_ Funny,  _ Iliana thought, her lips twisting ruefully.  _ I was just wondering the same thing. _

There were no gaps in her memory, but Iliana was still confused about what exactly happened. There had been their conversation with the Khagan, Imtura’s arm wrestling competitions, and then the rest of the night, she had spent with Aerin.

Her face was burning now. She had almost kissed him.

“Iliana?” Nia prompted, her voice gentle and concerned. When Iliana looked at them, she noticed that they all somehow seemed even more disturbed than they were a few seconds ago. She was, however, pleased to note that although their faces were still smudged with dirt, her companions were all dressed in clothes like hers, made of fine fur and leather. Good. These cells must have been freezing throughout the night.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and shook her head. “We met with the Khagan and then she had us join in their feast.”

“Feast?” Mal asked at the same time Tyril questioned, “ _ ‘She?’ _ The Khagan is a woman?”

Iliana sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Let me start from the beginning.”

Iliana recounted the evening, starting from when they had left the dungeons and going all the way up to the moment the guards had escorted her, Aerin, and Imtura back to the cells to find the rest of their companions deep asleep. She left out some of the more  _ personal _ moments that had occurred between her and Aerin because frankly, not only was it not really anyone else’s business other than hers and Aerin’s but she did not trust herself to be able to share what happened without dying of embarrassment. 

She had almost kissed him and he had pulled away.  _ Stupid, Iliana. Stupid, stupid.  _

“That… is a surprise,” Tyril stated when she had finished and Iliana raised a brow. 

“Which part?” she asked. “That the Khagan is a woman or that the wooly people have fooled the rest of the world into thinking that they’re as cold and stoic as the mountains?”

“All of it,” he replied, frowning. “She seems unpredictable, this ruler.”

“So you really have no idea what she plans to do with us?” Mal questioned from the other cell.

“No,” Iliana sighed, putting her head in her hands. “She seemed nice enough but at the end she got sort of… cold. Distant but diplomatic. Like everything else was just a front.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Nia observed, anxiously wringing her hands before her. “But if she does decide to punish us, or worse, execute us, we’ll just have to fight our way out right? Like we always have?”

“Now you’re getting the right idea, priestess,” Mal said with a half-hearted smile that quickly faded. “The only problem is that we don’t have any weapons. Only three of you are magic users, and these furballs are massive. We’d have to find that room Threep was talking about and hope we make it in time.”

“And we would have to find our drakes,” Tyril added. “Or else we would be chased around these mountains by people who know it much better than we do.”

“But if it’s either that or be executed, then we wouldn’t have a choice.” Nia’s voice was uncharacteristically grave, her expression far too grim and serious for Iliana’s liking. Unbidden, a shiver rolled down Iliana’s spine as Nia stated, “We either fight our way out or we die trying. I refuse to die in this frozen wasteland with no warmth, no light.”

A tense silence lapsed between the four of them. Iliana studied Nia with a frown and wondered for the first time if the priestess was not as okay as she seemed. Iliana had always thought that their last adventure had helped Nia grow a lot. That last leg of their journey had been especially transformative. Nia witnessed first-hand how corrupt the Temple of Light, the institution that had raised her, was. Then she had been captured and used as a vessel for the Dreadlord. And, Iliana could not forget that before all of that, Nia had lost Vash, the man who was the closest thing the priestess had to a father.

Perhaps this was more than just disillusionment and maturing.  Iliana thought back to their conversation in Nia’s home before they left Whitetower. 

_ Forgive him? No. He handed me over to the Dreadlord like I was nothing more than a puppet to be controlled. I don’t think I could ever forgive that, Iliana. Ever. _

The more Iliana thought about it, the more obvious it became that Nia, who was always so positive and forgiving, was still dealing with everything that had happened. And she was dealing with it alone.

“I suppose you’re right, priestess,” Mal conceded, clapping her on the shoulder. “But let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that. Maybe this khagan will throw us a bone and let us be on our way.”

“Yes,” Tyril agreed. “Let’s hope.”

Iliana nodded and wrapped her arms around herself, unable to ignore the icy fingers of dread that had slipped themselves in between the gaps of her ribs to brush against her heart. As Nia turned away to pace around her cell, Mal caught Iliana’s gaze and she knew that he was thinking the same thing. Of everyone, he and Iliana knew Nia best. And they had both decided that everything was not alright.

Before either of them could say anything, they were interrupted by a sudden fluttering sound. Without nearly as much grace or caution as last time, Threep came soaring out of the shadows, wings beating furiously. There was a frantic air about him as he came to hover in the space between the two cells, his mismatched eyes rapidly flicking between them.

“I come bearing news,” Threep panted as he landed on the coarse dungeon ground.

“Well?” Mal urged, gripping the bars of the cell. “Spit it out then!”

“Mal!” Nia chided, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. “Look at him! He’s clearly exhausted!” 

“No… I’m alright. This is urgent,” Threep said breathlessly, drawing himself up to meet the others’ gazes. “The wooly men have released your drakes!”

“As in, they let the drakes go free or they released them from their stables so we can continue on our way?” Tyril asked, his face hard and shoulders stiff.

“They let them go free,” Threep replied somberly. “I watched them fly south, riderless, back toward Morella.”

“What?” Iliana gasped, her heart stopping in her chest. “Why?”

“Because there is no use for them here,” someone said from behind her. Iliana turned to see Aerin push himself into a sitting position, lips twisted into a grimace as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. When he met her stare, his expression was grim. “The Khagan has made her decision, and she’s not letting us go.”

“And why in the seven blazing hells not?” Mal snarled, although Iliana knew his anger was not directed at anyone here.

“I don’t know,” Aerin admitted, his eyes flicking from Iliana’s face to the rest of their companions. His hazel eyes were full of regret and apologies. “I’m sorry. Maybe I should have―”

“Aerin, this isn’t your fault,” Iliana interjected firmly and she had to clench her hands by her sides to stop herself from reaching for him. “There was nothing more you could have done to convince the Khagan of our innocence.”

“Iliana’s right,” Tyril said, his brows low and flat, lips curled with distaste. “From what she told us, there was nothing wrong with the way your audience was handled. I have a feeling that nothing in the world could have helped. The Khagan met you with her decision already made. We just have to hope that her decision was to imprison us, not kill us.

Before anyone else could respond, Threep suddenly perked up, his hackles rising as he hissed,  _ “Guards.” _

Nia shooed him into the shadows just as the Khagan’s bronze warriors appeared at the end of the corridor. This time, they regarded Iliana and her companions with nothing but cold detachment, showing absolutely no hints of the warmth they had displayed last night in the dining hall. They stopped before the cells and began to unlock them. 

When the doors swung open, one of the warriors pointed to Imtura, who was still asleep. “Get her up.”

Nia and Mal scrambled to wake Imtura up and haul her to her feet as the guards waited with their hands on their weapons. 

“The Khagan has made her decision,” the lead warrior informed them once Imtura was up and scowling. Then, she lifted her hand in command and the others surged into the cells, roughly grabbing Iliana and her friends as she declared, “You are due for execution.”


	13. Branded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We either fight out way out or we die trying."

_ “You are due for execution.” _

“Get your hands off of me!” Iliana snarled like a feral animal as she tried in vain to break free of the Vishanti warrior’s iron grip. She heard Aerin shout her name as she was shoved against the wall, her cheek grinding against the rough granite as the wooly woman pinned her arms behind her back. Her boots scraped across the ground, fighting to get purchase as she was hauled through the door of the cell after Tyril, who was seething.

Mal and Nia were already in the corridor, the former spewing expletives as the latter obeyed, fuming silently. In the other cell, Imtura was still putting up a fight, forcing two guards to step in and wrench her arms between her back. 

“You cowards!” she spat, her sharp incisors gleaming in the firelight. “Let me go and fight me like real women! One-on-one, you overgrown bilge rats! I know you have more honor than this!”

“Iliana!”

Iliana turned, twisting around as much as her captor’s grip would allow, to see Aerin still standing in their cell. Untouched.

Iliana’s brows furrowed. “Aerin?”

He stepped toward the door of the cell as if to follow her when one of the Khagan’s warriors blocked his path. 

“Not you,” the woman growled, planting her hand in the center of Aerin’s chest and shoving him back, hard. “The Khagan wants you alive.”

“No,” Iliana breathed at the same time she saw Aerin’s hazel eyes blow wide with shock and immediate understanding.  _ She knows. The Khagan knows.  _ But how? There was no way the Vishanti ruler could have recognized Aerin―they had never even met. Iliana struggled harder.  _ “No! _ Aerin!”

Behind her, Imtura was finally dragged out of her cell, one warrior holding each of her burly arms in their steel grip.

Panic rose in Iliana as she felt herself get hauled away. The Khagan could not have him. If she did, she could send Aerin back to his father, who would put him back in that cell Iliana knew he hated. Or worse. 

Iliana felt an elbow dig into her side and she tore her gaze away from the cell to find Mal being hauled along beside her. His lips were still twisted into a bitter scowl but his eyes were clear and determined. Reassuring.  _ He’s got a plan. _

Mal held her gaze as he addressed Nia, who was escorted before them next to Tyril. “Hey, priestess, remember what you said earlier? About doing what we always do?”

_ Ah, _ Iliana thought dryly.  _ So it’s time for that. _

Although Iliana could not see Nia’s face, she heard her response, calm and even. “Of course.”

“You wanna kick us off?” Mal asked as they rounded a corner and Iliana felt her own lips curve into a grim smile. For the time being, she put Aerin out of her thoughts and willed her mind to calm. She flexed her fingers, focusing on the Vishanti warrior’s harsh grip on her forearms. All she needed was a little bit of slack, and then―

“I would love to,” Nia replied and Iliana swore there was an edge of daring excitement in the priestess’ voice.  _ Gods, we’re really rubbing off on her. _

Behind them, Imtura’s sounds of struggle quieted and Iliana glanced back just in time to catch Imtura’s golden gaze, understanding passing between them in that split second before they both closed their eyes.

There was an exclamation of surprise. “What―!”

The backs of Iliana’s eyelids flared red as Nia’s brilliant light flooded the corridor, effectively blinding their startled guards. Iliana felt the grip around her arms loosen by a fraction, but it was enough. 

_ Thank you, Nia, _ Iliana thought as she snapped her arms to the side, breaking the hold on them, then slammed her elbows back into the warrior’s abdomen, causing the woman to stumble back. The impact of her elbows against the bronze armor reverberated through Iliana’s arms, but the blow provided her with the space she needed to turn and strike out with her fist. Iliana’s knuckles cracked along the other woman cheekbone with a satisfying thud, snapping her head to the side as Iliana snatched the first weapon she could get her hands on―a war hammer, not unlike the one Imtura had been studying the night before. The carvings along the side depicted a dense, snow-kissed forest complete with snarling wolves.

It was so heavy, Iliana needed both hands to swing it straight into the warrior’s chest, crumpling the bronze breastplate and sending her careening back right into Imtura’s arms.

“Need some help, landrat?” she asked with a grin as she pinned the Vishanti woman’s hairy arms behind her back. Behind her, the two guards that had held her were already slumped in an unconscious pile on the ground.

“No, but I’ll take it anyway,” Iliana replied, shifting the war hammer into one hand and winding back her other arm to deliver a swift uppercut that knocked the warrior out cold. Behind her, Mal, Nia, and Tyril took care of the remaining guards, leaving them in a heap of fur and gleaming bronze.

“Some elite crew,” Imtura huffed, glaring down at the unconscious warriors. 

“We need to find our way out of here,” Mal said as he peered down the corridor. “Fast. Whoever these warriors were taking us to will be waiting. When we don’t show, they’ll know something happened.”

“If they haven’t heard us already,” Nia added. “We weren’t exactly quiet.”

“Arm yourselves,” Tyril ordered, snatching a sword for himself. “I have a feeling we’re going to find more trouble before we get our old weapons back.”

“You want to try and find our stuff?” Mal asked, arching a brow.

“We have to. We’ll never survive out in the elements without our supplies. Threep mentioned they were being kept in a room nearby.” 

“I hope Threep’s alright,” Nia said anxiously as she rejected a knife Mal offered her. “Wherever he is.”

Imtura’s eyes strayed to the hammer dangling from Iliana’s hand. “You mind if I take that one, landrat?”

“By all means,” Iliana replied distractedly and handed it off, her attention already elsewhere.  _ Aerin. _ He was still back in the dungeons. 

Imtura let out a low whistle of admiration. “Say what you will about these wooly men, but they sure know how to make a nice hammer. Bet I could crush quite a few skulls with this beauty.”

“You guys go on ahead. It’s too dangerous to wait here,” Iliana ordered as she sifted through the pile of warriors until she found what she was looking for: a tarnished ring filled with several identical keys. “I’m going back to get Aerin. We’ll catch up with you.”

She quickly unhooked the keyring and stood, moving to start back down the hallway toward the dungeons when a hand wrapped around her upper arm, pulling her to a halt. 

“Iliana, wait.” Tyril stared back at her, jaw set, face hard as the granite that surrounded them. “You and I both know that the Khagan is keeping Aerin because she must have figured out who she is. If she has sent word to King Arlan that Aerin is here, Morellian soldiers will be after us. Aerin’s the real prize. The king doesn’t care about us nearly as much as he does for his son.”

Iliana cut him a sharp look. “Are you really asking me to leave him behind? After all that he’s done for us?”

“I’m asking you to  _ think _ ,” Tyril replied, his expression equally harsh. “Don’t let your feelings for him cloud your judgment. The Khagan knows our plans now. We don’t need her people  _ and  _ the king’s guard on our trail once we escape.”

Iliana heard that voice inside her head again.  _ Compromised. _

Iliana shook Tyril’s hand off and started to back down the hall, her voice resolute. “We still need him, Tyril. And even if we didn’t, I brought him into this mess. I am not leaving him behind.”

“Be quick, kit,” Mal told her as he stood, tucking knives into his clothing. “Others will have heard and come running.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Tyril warned although he did not reach for her again.

“I do,” Iliana said firmly, and this time, she had no doubt that she was making the right decision as she turned and sprinted back toward the dungeons.

The soles of her boots scraped against the coarse floor as she slid around the corner and turned into the dungeon corridor, her gaze immediately fixing itself on Aerin. He stood at the door to his cell, arms laced through the metal bars as he wedged something into the door’s lock. As Iliana came closer, she saw that the object in his hands was one of the pointed claws that helped hold his clothing together. At the sound of Iliana’s pounding footsteps, Aerin looked up, brows raising. 

“You… I saw the flash and heard…” He stared at her, mouth agape as she came to a stop before him and began fitting keys into the lock. “You came back.”

Iliana paused to look at him, her chest aching at the disbelief that was clear in his voice. “Of course I did.”

She set back to work trying to find the right key to unlock his cell. She huffed, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes as yet another one failed to work.  _ Why are there so many? _

“Hey!”

Iliana looked up to see two Vishanti guards emerge from the other end of the corridor, opposite the way she had come. One man had an axe hanging off his belt and the other leveled a crossbow at her, dark eyes glittering in the low firelight. “Don’t move. Step away from the prince.”

Iliana held up her hands, backing away from the cell as the wooly men came closer. Her eyes flicked between them, evaluating her options. If she tried to run, the one with the crossbow would surely pin her down. She could fight, but she would have to wait to strike until they got closer so the crossbow would be as dangerous to the other warrior as it would be for her. But even then, she had the axe and the combined strength of the wooly men to consider. These weren’t easy opponents like the Whitetower guards.

Aerin sucked in a sharp breath. “Iliana.”

She saw it too. A pair of mismatched eyes gleaming in the firelight, nearly hidden in the shadows of the cell the guards were about to pass.  _ Threep. _

Iliana made her move. She dropped low into the Zephyr stance Imtura taught her during their Kaytar practices and charged the warrior with the hand axe, tackling him around the knees just as Threep sprung from the shadows and attacked the other one’s face, hissing and clawing at the wooly man’s eyes. 

Iliana heard the crossbow land on the ground with a clatter as she landed atop the warrior, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Iliana took advantage of his surprise and unhooked the axe at his side just as the other warrior grabbed Threep around his midsection and yanked, tugging the nesper away from his face and flinging him against the wall.

“Threep!” Iliana yelped in horror just as the warrior beneath her reached up to wrap his large hands around her throat. Iliana’s attention snapped back to the wooly man’s face and she snarled, “fool” just before she slammed the handle into his temple.

Before Iliana could even take a moment to breathe, she was hauled up into the air by the other warrior, one arm barring across her throat as the other wrapped around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides. She heard Aerin shout her name as she gasped and dropped the axe, the last of her air leaving her lungs. Driven by an animalistic instinct, Iliana kicked out her leg and swung it back, slamming her heel into the warrior’s kneecap with a brutal  _ crack! _

She and the wooly man fell backward, and Iliana stared up at the firelit ceiling of the dungeon as the arm that barred across her midsection fell away. She scrabbled for purchase, trying in vain to loosen the hold around her throat. She heard the warrior snarl something into her ear, his breath hot and heavy, and although he spoke in a different language, Iliana could tell by his tone that whatever he said was probably very foul.

Aerin shouted, “Iliana, the crossbow!”

Darkness flared at the edges of her vision, unconsciousness starting to creep in, but Iliana managed to angle her head enough to see that the fallen crossbow sat near her feet. There was no way she could get it to her hands and use it, but maybe Aerin could. 

She kicked her foot out and missed. On her second try, she barely clipped the bow’s edge, causing it to spin around so that the longer part, the stock, faced her.  _ Perfect. _

Her next kick sent the weapon skittering in Aerin’s direction, landing right at the edge of the cell. Iliana watched as he reached through the bars and picked up the bow. He couldn’t bring it into the cell, but he didn’t need to. As he leveled the crossbow in her direction, Iliana desperately hoped Aerin knew what he was doing. She craned her neck as best as she could to give him a clear shot. Maybe it would be better if he fired nearby, just enough to startle the warrior into loosening his hold―

Iliana’s thoughts were cut short by a click, a soft whizzing sound, and a solid  _ thunk!  _ Iliana gasped, gulping down air as the arm around her neck fell away and the warrior slumped back, dead. When Iliana looked back, she saw that a crossbow bolt protruded from the space between the wooly man’s dark, lifeless eyes. Iliana shuddered and turned away.

“Nice shot,” she wheezed, her voice hoarse and throat burning.

“During Baldur’s hunting parties, I always aimed to miss,” Aerin said, lowering the crossbow and setting it on the ground. Iliana noted that he looked a bit pale, as if he were going to be sick. “That was the first time I shot to kill.”

Iliana nodded, unsurprised. She still remembered the unicorn he had saved in the Deadwood, how furious he had been with Baldur for trying to take the creature’s life.

Iliana’s gaze fell across the small bundle of purple fur that rose and fell against the wall.

“Threep!” Iliana pushed herself to her feet and rushed to the spot the nesper had fallen. She gently scooped him into her arms and nearly sighed in relief when he stirred, opening a single eye. “Are you okay?”

“I’m alright,” he replied weakly, although he curled further into Iliana’s arms. “Oh, but I would certainly love some elven wine when all of this is over.”

“I promise you can have all the wine you want and then some,” Iliana laughed slightly, helping him to perch on her shoulder. 

She shuffled back to Aerin’s cell and went back to trying the keys, her body aching but otherwise alright. Aerin’s eyes were still trained on the dead guard behind her, his chest rising and falling unsteadily. 

“Aerin,” Iliana prompted as she tried yet another key, trying to draw his attention away.

His voice was soft. “He’s dead.”

Iliana’s fingers stilled on the keys and she looked at him, studying his pale countenance. “Are you okay with that?” 

Aerin’s lips parted and for a moment, his brow creased. Then his face hardened and he nodded. “Considering what he did to Threep and was about to do to you? Yes.”

The next key Iliana tried finally worked. The moment the door swung open, she grabbed Aerin by the front of his shirt and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Oh!”

“It was either him or me,” she mumbled, against his shoulder. “So, thank you.”

“I… of course,” Aerin replied and Iliana felt his arms gently wrap around her. Iliana sank into his touch, warm and reassuring. After a few moments, Aerin cleared his throat and pulled back by a fraction to meet her gaze, his hands sliding along her arms. “Iliana… The Khagan knows about me. You shouldn’t have come back. If she sends word to Father―and I’m certain that she will―”

“I don’t care. I’m not leaving you behind,” Iliana replied, releasing him from her embrace. “You and Tyril can yell at me for it later.” She stepped back to let Aerin out of his cell, retrieving the crossbow from the ground and swiping the quiver of bolts from the wooly man’s body. She held them out to him. “Can you cover us?”

Aerin looked down at the weapon, still a little pale, but nodded and took it from her hands. “Yes.”

“Good.” As Iliana started down the hall, heading in the direction she had last seen her friends, she glanced at Threep out of the corner of her eye and gently scratched the underside of his chin. “Threep, yesterday you said you saw the room where our supplies are hidden. Do you think you can guide us there?”

“Of course,” he answered, his tail curling around Iliana’s upper arm. “Just follow my directions.”

* * *

Guided by Threep, Iliana and Aerin swiftly and silently moved throughout the winding tunnels of the Khagan’s fortress. Every now and then, they came across a few fallen guards, some unconscious and some dead. 

“Looks like you weren’t the only one who didn’t have a choice,” Iliana remarked as they picked their way across the bodies. “These wooly men are ruthless opponents.”

“So far it’s the only thing I got right about them,” Aerin muttered beneath his breath. He still could not believe how thoroughly he and the rest of the realm had been deceived by the wooly men of Vishanti. It did not bode well with him to know that no one back at the palace knew that Vishanti had a new khagan. 

Iliana glanced back at him, her expression sympathetic. “You couldn’t have known any of this would happen. And for the record, because I know you think so, no one blames you for the Khagan’s decision. It’s like Tyril said, she probably made her decision before she even met with us.”

“No,” Aerin replied quietly, shaking his head. “That’s not it. It’s because she knows who I am.”

“Are we certain she knows?” she asked although Aerin knew she had pieced it together at the same time he did. 

“Turn left here,” Threep instructed and they did.

“Why else would she want to keep me alive?” Aerin countered and Iliana frowned.

“It doesn’t make any sense.” She shook her head, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “You’ve never met her. How did she figure out who you are?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. He thought back in their audience with the Khagan and tried to identify which of his answers could have given him away, but they all seemed fairly sound.

“She said she was a halfling,” Iliana recalled. “Maybe she has halfling informants in Morella?”

Aerin’s frown only deepened.  _ That’s right. She’s a halfling. _ Amidst everything that had happened last night, Aerin had nearly forgotten that little tidbit of information the Khagan had provided. He remembered thinking that that was such an odd thing to reveal. Perhaps things were different in Vishanti, but in Morella, halflings were looked down upon, treated as outcasts. Those that could get away with passing for one race or the other kept their mixed heritage a secret.

There was something about that that bothered him. Why? Why would the Khagan bother sharing that, especially after they had told her about how halflings were perceived in Morella? Unless for some reason, she  _ wanted  _ them to know.

“Maybe,” was all Aerin said even though he could not help but feel that there was something missing, a truth that was staring him right in the face.

Iliana stopped suddenly and she reached for Aerin’s wrist, holding him back. She tilted her head. “Do you hear that?”

If Aerin strained, he could just make out the distant sounds of a fight, coming from up ahead. 

“The others,” Iliana whispered and broke out into a run, forcing Aerin to chase after her. They continued down the torchlit corridor, the din of battle growing louder with every bounding step they took. As they came to a T-intersection, Iliana was about to turn right, following the shouts and flashes of light, when Threep suddenly spread out his wings, digging his nails into the leather of Iliana’s coat and flapping backward.

“Other way!” he urged, tugging her toward the left tunnel.

“What? Why?” Iliana demanded, swatting at his paws as she pointed down the right corridor. At the far end, they could see the rest of their party, engaged in a battle with about a dozen Vishanti warriors. “The others are that way! They’re clearly outnumbered!”

“Yes, but our supplies are  _ this  _ way! You’re going to need a lot more than a crossbow to help the others out,” Threep reasoned, beating his wings to keep him aloft. “And there’s another passageway that branches off of this hall and will loop around to where the others are.”

“But―”

“We can come in from behind,” Aerin realized, catching onto Threep’s plan. “Iliana, if you get your bow, we can trap the warriors in on both sides and pick them off.”

“Precisely, Aerin!” Threep exclaimed proudly although his ears quickly flattened as he remembered who exactly he was praising. Aerin resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he watched Iliana look between him and Threep, hesitant.

“I know you don’t want to leave your friends at a time like this, but Threep’s approach is the better plan,” Aerin assured her, laying his hand atop her shoulder. “They can hold their own for the time being.”

Iliana pressed her lips together, brow creasing, and for a moment, Aerin thought she might bolt in the other direction. But finally, she nodded. “Lead the way, Threep.”

After a few more turns, they finally reached the hallway that housed their belongings. They cautiously peered around the corner, scoping out the corridor for any signs of trouble first. A single wooly man guarded the ash wood door that led to the supply room although there was no way to tell if anyone else lingered nearby, just out of sight.

“How are we going to do this?” Aerin asked, hefting up the crossbow. 

“If we reveal ourselves, he could shout for others,” Iliana rationalized, her face drawn and focused. “But if we kill him…” 

“It’s… unnecessary,” Aerin finished for her and she nodded.

“To say the least.”

Aerin pressed his lips together as he tried to come up with a plan. The crossbow bolt to the leg could disable him, but as Iliana had said, it would give him time to issue a warning cry. They just needed to get close enough to knock the guard unconscious. But how?

“Aerin,” Iliana whispered, tugging on the edge of his sleeve. “Didn’t you say that relations between Morella and Vishanti are tense?”

“They always have been,” Aerin replied, turning his gaze from the warrior to Iliana. “But I would not be surprised if things go from tense to hostile after this encounter.”

“And the wooly men know that killing a prince of Morella would put them in a very bad position,” Iliana continued. “That might be why the Khagan wants to keep you alive.”

“Yes. Especially if they don’t know how my, ah, standing has changed.” Aerin nodded, drumming his fingers along the smooth wooden edge of the crossbow. “Which, given how stilted communications between Vishanti and Morella are, would not surprise me. We didn’t even know Vishanti had a new ruler, and judging by how well the people receive her, I imagine the Khagan has been in power for quite some time now.”

Aerin narrowed his eyes at her, his curiosity piqued. There was very little that he would not give to know what was going on inside her mind at that moment. He could practically see the gears in her head turning. Aerin was reminded once again that he was not the only one there that was capable of scheming. She  _ had _ broken him out of the palace dungeons, after all. 

“What are you thinking?” he asked, almost afraid to find out.

Her answering smile was grim and just a little bit apologetic. Aerin’s suspicion only grew as she took the crossbow from his hands and said, “I think I have a plan.”

* * *

This was such a dumb idea. Dumb, and reckless, and―

“Brilliant,” Aerin marveled, his eyes sparkling in the firelight as they crouched in the shadows of a hidden alcove, not too far from the supply room.

“Wait, seriously?” Iliana blinked at him, surprised. That was not the reaction she was expecting in response to her harebrained plan.

“Yes,” he replied, reaching for Iliana’s elbow and pulling her with him as he stood up. “I think that will work.”

Iliana glanced toward Threep, who lurked by the corner, keeping a lookout. “What do you think, Threep?”

The nesper turned his mismatched gaze on her, his tail lazily flicking behind him. “I think that we have come up with worse plans before and made it out with our lives.”

“We don’t have much time to come up with something else, Iliana,” Aerin reminded her and Iliana sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I think this is a good idea. I trust you.”

Iliana dropped her hand and it was not until he saw her surprised expression that Aerin seemed to realize what he had said.

_ I trust you. _

For a moment, he had the panicked look of a newborn deer that was gazing out onto the world for the first time, but in a split second, Aerin quickly schooled his expression into one of unfaltering confidence. He nodded, resolute. “I do.”

Iliana felt her chest warm at that. 

“Alright.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Just… tell me if I’m being too rough. Three taps on my arm.”

“Sure,” Aerin replied and turned around so that his back faced her.

Iliana took a deep breath, then snaked one arm under his and then barred it across his chest, pulling him flush against her body. She used the other to hold the tip of the loaded crossbow bolt beneath his chin. Aerin tilted his face up, his head falling back against her shoulder, and placed one hand on her forearm.

“You okay?” Iliana whispered.

“Perfect,” he assured her. She could feel his chest rise and fall beneath her palm, steady and even.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Iliana peered around the corner to make sure that there was only the lone guard, then hauled Aerin out into the middle of the corridor. She watched the wooly man’s eyes widen in surprise when they fell across her and Aerin, then narrow, lingering on the weapon in her hand.

Iliana dropped her voice to a menacing growl. “Don’t move. You know who this is,” she said, watching as the man’s dark eyes lifted to Aerin’s face. “Your Khagan wants him alive to prevent a war with Morella, but if you so much as cry for help, I will shoot him and your people will be to blame. The King will make Vishanti pay a thousand times over for the death of his youngest son.”

The wooly man’s lips twisted into a scowl, but he made no move to reach for his weapons or yell. “You would kill your own prince?”

“I would kill my own king if it meant not dying in this frozen wasteland,” Iliana replied, slowly walking forward, careful not to startle the man. She nodded towards the door. “Unlock it. I want my stuff.”

The guard did not move.

_ “Unlock it,” _ Iliana repeated as she pressed the tip of the bolt harder into the underside of Aerin’s chin, careful not to actually draw any blood.  _ I’m sorry,  _ she thought as she heard his breath hitch and felt his chest still beneath her arm.

This time, the wooly man listened, using the key hooked at his belt to open the door to the supply room.

“Good. Now step away.”

He did.

Iliana kept her gaze on the warrior as she edged closer. Almost there… 

“Even with your weapons, you’ll never escape this fortress alive,” the wooly man threatened.

Iliana stepped within range and gave him a smile so sweet and alluring, the stoic face that was hidden beneath all of that hair seemed to flush. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

Iliana shoved Aerin to the side and rushed forward, using the stock of the crossbow to strike the warrior across the temple. She reached out as he slackened, eyes rolling back into his head, and hooked her fingers into the edges of his leather armor, slowing his fall. The moment the guard was laid out on the ground, Iliana turned to Aerin, an apology on her lips.

“Aerin, I―”

“Iliana, if you’re going to apologize, don’t,” he told her, his voice earnest. He pointed to his neck, which was marred only by a fading red mark. “It’s okay. See? You didn’t even break skin.”

Iliana pressed her lips together but nodded, handing the crossbow back. She did not even want to hold the damn thing anymore. When Aerin raised a brow, she admitted, “I hated that.”

Aerin’s expression softened with surprise and a rare sort of tenderness that made Iliana’s heart skip a beat. “I know,” he said, then tilted his head towards the supply room. “Let’s stock up.”

A short while later, Iliana had the Blade of Sol sheathed at her side, the Bow of Gal’dariel and a quiver slung across her back, and Imtura’s Gauntlet of Pain locked on her hand. She flexed her fingers and rolled her shoulders. It felt good to have her weapons back. 

Beside her, Aerin buckled the belt that held Iliana’s old sword around his hips and shouldered a quiver of crossbow bolts. He turned to Iliana. “Ready?”

“More than ready,” Iliana answered, starting for the door. 

She emerged back into the hallway first, checking both ways for trouble. Seeing that it was all clear, Iliana was about to step out when Aerin put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

“Maybe we should hide him,” Aerin suggested, jutting his chin in the direction of the unconscious wooly man. “In case anyone comes by.”

“Oh.” Iliana had not even thought of that. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Together, they dragged the man back into the room, hiding him amongst the packs of their supplies. Aerin swiped the keyring off his belt and tucked it into the pockets of his clothes.

“So we can get back in. The door could lock automatically,” he explained and Iliana wordlessly nodded, her cheeks warming. That too, she had not thought of. Iliana realized, not for the first time, that she really had no idea what she was doing. Sure, she could come up with a decent scheme every now and then but planning and strategizing had never been one of her strong suits. Despite everything that had happened, she would always be that scrappy young girl from Riverbend whose first instinct was to act now and improvise if necessary. But maybe, with time, that could change. Iliana might have given Aerin lessons in combat, but perhaps he was teaching her as well, in these small, subtle ways. 

Iliana checked the corridor once more, then stepped out, waving for the others to follow. “Lead the way, Threep.”

It did not take long for them to find the others. They were still locked in battle with the wooly men, although their numbers had dwindled from about a dozen to six. Tyril and Imtura each had two warriors of their own to deal with, using stolen swords and the new war hammer to fend off the attacks. Mal danced around the remaining two warriors, dodging and striking with his knives as Nia threw Orbs of Light, stones, and any other solid objects she could get her hands on. Iliana reckoned that her friends could handle them on their own, but it was not a possibility she was going to wait around to see. 

Iliana edged around the corner, careful to stay hidden and maintain their advantage as she evaluated the scene.  _ Oh, this will be easy.  _ Aerin and Threep were right. Coming in from behind made the Vishanti warriors easy pickings.

As she unslung her bow and notched an arrow, Iliana’s gaze narrowed in on a wooly man who had managed to slip around Mal’s defense and now lumbered toward Nia, his axe raised. A swirling ball of light coalesced in Nia’s hands, steadily growing as she backed away, her face twisted into a mask of defiance as she looked up at the hulking warrior.

Iliana drew her bowstring taut, her hands steady and unwavering as she instructed Aerin, “Aim for their knees and weapons.”

She let the arrow fly, the clink of its tip against the axe’s edge audible from down the hall as the blade was knocked from the wooly man’s hand. Nia’s eyes widened, the Light in her hands faltering as both she and the Vishanti warrior turned in Iliana’s direction, surprise written all over their faces. 

Iliana did not wait to hear Nia’s gleeful exclamation of her name as she loosed the next arrow. It went clean through the warrior’s knee, effectively felling him, and Nia took advantage of the opportunity to deliver a swift kick to the side of his face, knocking him out cold.  _ Nice one, Nia. _

Mal spotted her next, face lighting up in a grin, even as he dodged a sickle aimed for his neck. “Kit! Perfect timing.”

Iliana took down two more warriors in the same fashion with Aerin taking the other three. When the skirmish was over, Iliana nudged his shoulder and straightened. “That was a good plan. Coming from behind.”

Color bloomed across Aerin’s cheeks and he shook his head. “It was Threep’s idea.”

Iliana shrugged, reaching down to pat the nesper’s back as he scampered by, beelining straight for Nia. “Still.”

“You two certainly took your time,” Mal chided, even as he wrapped Iliana in a brief hug. “I was beginning to worry. Hope you had a happy reunion.”

Iliana rolled her eyes and shoved him off. She knew that everyone had seen her and Aerin bundled up on the floor together, but she was not about to acknowledge any of that right now. Especially when it didn’t― _ couldn’t _ mean anything. 

“I ran into some trouble in the dungeons,” she explained, nodding towards Nia, who scooped Threep up in her arms. “Threep and Aerin helped me out.”

“Kitty cat to the rescue,” Mal muttered, although he gave the nesper an appreciative pat on the head. 

“I am glad to see you’re alright, Iliana,” Tyril said, clasping her arm, although she could see a hint of reproach in his eyes as he added, “All of you.”

Iliana knew that although he would not openly dissent, Tyril still disapproved of her decision to go back for the prince. It was highly possible that this choice would come back to bite them later, but Iliana knew that it was one she would never come to regret, even if one day, all of the king’s men came down upon them. They would deal with the consequences later.

“We should get a move on,” Imtura stated, glaring at their surroundings. “I’m getting real sick of these tunnels. I’d rather freeze my ass off outside than spend another second in this hellhole.”

“We’ll see if you’re still saying that when we’re  _ actually  _ outside, freezing our asses off,” Mal muttered and Imtura shot him a nasty look.

“Either way, I’m inclined to agree with Imtura,” Tyril waved his hand at the corridor, littered with wounded and unconscious warriors. “We should not linger here. After all of the trouble we have caused, more warriors will be looking for us now. Maybe even the Khagan herself.”

“If she knows what’s good for her, she won’t,” Imtura grumbled, hefting her new hammer against her palm. “After she wasted our time last night? I’m looking for a fight with that hairy queen.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Aerin said grimly, his jaw a sharp line. 

“Yeah. Well, we should move on,” Iliana added as she started to back down the hallway. “We found our stuff.” She held up her bow. “Obviously.”

“Right then,” Tyril nodded. “We’ll follow you.”

After making a quick stop to retrieve their weapons and other belongings for camp, the party followed Threep through the winding tunnels of the Khagan’s fortress, moving as stealthily as a band of six heavily armed adventurers possibly could and quickly taking down any Vishanti warriors that crossed their path. 

Distantly, Iliana marveled at how well they had worked together, even with Aerin. Last night, as the feast was winding down, Aerin had told her about how peoples like the wooly men and orcs were incredibly efficient in battle due to their loyalty and strong personal ties. She wondered if that applied to her own group of friends. They were an odd band of individuals―two elves, three humans, one orc, and a nesper, but the party was the closest thing Iliana had to a real family aside from Kade since Amphitryon and Alcmene had long since passed. 

Hadn’t the Khagan said something about that?

_ Found families. Strange, how the people we find, no matter how different they are, can feel more like kin than our own blood. Rarely do we find relationships stronger than the ones we choose for ourselves. _

That woman was a lot of things―unpredictable, deceitful, cunning, and some other choice words Iliana knew would make Aerin choke if spoken aloud. But at least the Khagan was right about that.

Before long, they reached great ash doors that they had entered the fortress through. Tyril and Imtura made quick work of the warriors that patrolled here, clearing the way for the rest of the party to pass. Iliana was about to shove the doors open when Aerin stopped her with a cautious hand on her elbow.

She turned to him, her shoulder braced against the ash wood and brows raised. “What is it?”

Aerin shook his head, lips pressed into a grim line. “There’s something off about this.”

Iliana straightened, backing away from the door. She hadn’t sensed anything strange, but so far, Aerin’s intuition had proved to be invaluable. “What do you mean?”

To her surprise, he turned to Tyril, face drawn and jaw tense. Iliana had come to recognize that expression as the one he wore when he was trying to piece together some sort of problem. “It’s too easy.”

Iliana’s brows drew together as Mal scoffed. “What, exactly, about any of this has been easy, prince? We’ve taken down at least thirty of those furballs just to get here. You think that’s too easy?”

“We’ve only had a few small fights,” Aerin replied, biting the tip of his thumb as he stared at the ground, lost in thought. “And all of the guards we’ve fought have been those we came across while they were on their patrol. No one has been sent after us.”

“Maybe that’s because we did a good job of sneaking around?” Nia suggested, absently stroking Threep’s tail as she glanced between Aerin and Tyril, who was watching Aerin carefully, a bit of begrudging respect reflected in his features.

“He’s right,” Tyril admitted, turning to face the corridor from whence they came. “That first battle certainly made a lot of noise and look―there is not even a single warrior in sight. This is the entrance to their fortress.” He gestured to the unconscious wooly man and woman that were slumped on the floor. “One would think that it is more heavily guarded than this.”

“Exactly,” Aerin nodded, although he did not look very pleased to be right.

“Do you think this is some kind of trap?” Iliana asked, catching on to his line of thought as dread pooled in the pit of her stomach.

“Maybe,” Aerin replied, glancing at Tyril who nodded in agreement. “There could be an ambush waiting for us on the other side of those doors.”

“So, what do we do?” Imtura asked, hefting one of her axes in one hand and the hammer in the other. “Find another way out?”

Aerin turned to Threep, who rustled his wings apologetically. “I’m afraid I don’t know of any other way. In all of my wanderings, this was the only set of doors that anyone ever came or left through.”

“Even if there is another exit, it would take ages to find it,” Iliana pointed out, frustration clawing its way up her throat. “This place is like a maze.”

“So we have no other choice but to leave this way,” Aerin concluded with a heavy sigh as he turned to scrutinize the doors. 

“I’d rather face whatever’s out there than spend another blasted moment in here,” Imtura grumbled and Nia nodded in agreement. “No fresh air, no horizon. It’s bad enough to be so far from the sea. Getting trapped inside a mountain is not something I ever wanted to do.”

“I don’t like not being able to see the sky,” Nia added softly. “The darkness in here is smothering. At least outside, there’s the sun and stars.”

“So we’re in agreement, then,” Tyril prompted, laying his hand over the door. “We make a run for it here?”

Everyone nodded and Mal shrugged. “Might as well.”

“Very well. Be on your guard.”

Tyril shoved the doors open and the group surged across the threshold, weapons drawn and magic at the ready.

But there was no one there.

Iliana felt something in her chest crack in relief as they emerged from the shadows and into the dazzling sunlight. For a moment, the light reflecting off the snow was nearly blinding, colors refracting in the crystals of ice that hung suspended from the arching pillars of granite that framed the courtyard of the Khagan’s fortress. The scene was almost serene, blanketed in a peaceful silence that was interrupted only by the chirping of swallows and the distant rustle of pine needles shifting in the wind.

Snow crunched underfoot as the group cautiously moved through the courtyard, prepared for an attack that never came. As they edged toward the treeline, Iliana glanced over her shoulder at the fortress, carved from the side of the mountain. There was not a soul in sight. There were not even any archers or guards on patrol on the parapets of the building. It was as if the entire castle had been deserted.

_ Something’s wrong. _

“It can’t be this easy,” Aerin muttered beneath his breath as he advanced alongside her, weaving between the first line of trees.

Iliana glanced over at him. He looked so focused. Determined. She thought back to the sword fighting lesson they’d had in the forest glade just a few days ago. Aerin was better than she had expected him to be and he had improved significantly in the short time they had practiced. Iliana could only hope that her lessons were enough for now, that she had not failed him somehow already.

“Hey,” she murmured, scanning the forest around them. “Stay close to me.”

Aerin arched a brow, staring at her blankly before his lips curved into a small smile that was at once bashful and teasing. She had only seen an expression like that on him once, when they had played with the lake water in the Deadwood. “Are you worried about me?”

“Ugh, nevermind,” Iliana muttered, rolling her eyes. “Stay over there, princeling.”

Aerin opened his mouth to respond―

―but he never had the chance.

There was a rustling sound and then a  _ snap!  _ as if a branch had broken. Iliana and Tyril reacted first, guided by their elven senses. Tyril let out a warning cry and Iliana grabbed Aerin, throwing him behind her, just as the trees around them came alive and wooly men plummeted to the ground from above.

Iliana unsheathed her sword and went to engage the one that had landed where Aerin had once stood when pain exploded on the side of her temple. She let out a surprised cry as a gauntleted fist cracked across her temple, the world rocked dangerously, and she went crashing to the cold, hard earth.

_ “No!” _

Aerin’s cry was a guttural thing and Iliana felt the urge to go to him rise up like a livid creature in her chest, but her body would not work fast enough. She was still reeling from that blow, struggling to get her hands beneath her body, to push herself to stand. She tasted dirt in her mouth, smelled the coppery tang of her own blood as it trickled down the side of her face. 

Iliana was about to push herself to her elbows when a boot planted itself between her shoulders, forcing her to lay flat on the ground, her cheek pressed to the melting snow and forest mulch. Another foot bore down on her hand and Iliana cried out, her fingers releasing her hold on the hilt of her sword.

They were overwhelmed, so horribly, completely outnumbered. Aerin and Tyril were right―it had been too easy.  _ This _ was the fight they should have been expecting all along, not those small skirmishes. All around her, over the pounding of gods knew how many footsteps, she could hear the sounds of her friends being swiftly taken down. Imtura’s snarl, briefly cut off. Tyril’s interrupted incantation. Nia’s surprised yelp. Mal’s strained, “You bastards!”

The only person Iliana had yet to hear fall was Aerin. 

The rest of the footsteps had quieted, but Iliana could still hear the clang of two swords clashing and parrying. Iliana lifted her head, twisting her neck just enough to see the prince fending off an attack from a brutish wooly man. The other warriors looked on, some holding down her friends, some simply standing there. Iliana could not understand why they did not make any move to strike him down, but she could not bring herself to focus on anything besides Aerin as he fought for his life.

He was moving just as she had told him to, using his smaller size to dance around the massive broadsword the warrior wielded against him. He was fighting and fighting  _ well.  _ Iliana watched as the wooly man left his side fully exposed for Aerin, the target too obvious to be anything but bait.

_ Don’t go for it. _

Aerin didn’t. She watched as his eyes stayed on the broadsword and he brought his own up to defend himself. His block was perfectly timed, the scrape of metal echoing throughout the clearing as Aerin caught the warrior’s blade and shoved, forcing the other man to stumble back. Aerin went on the offensive, grunting as he swung over and over again, his quick strikes giving the wooly man no opportunity to do anything more than defend. Aerin should not be winning, and yet, he  _ was. _

Iliana watched as Aerin eased up on his brutal swings only to slide her old blade along the underside of the warrior’s broadsword and twist his wrist, sending the other weapon clattering to the ground. Aerin gripped the hilt with both hands and twisted as if to swing for the knees when―

Iliana’s old sword was knocked from his hands as an arrow struck its blade. She watched shock slacken his features and he turned in the direction the arrow had come from, just as the man he had been fighting recovered and lunged forward, punching Aerin square in the chest. He went stumbling back, his heel catching on the edge of a root, and fell to the ground with a thud. Before he could get his bearings, one of the nearby warriors grabbed Aerin and hauled him to his knees, pinning his arms behind his back.

“No,” Iliana breathed, struggling to push herself up although the foot at her back shoved her down.  _ He lost. We lost. _

“Not bad, Gartho Gillbottle. Not bad at all.”

Iliana’s blood ran cold.  _ No. _

The Khagan stepped out from the horde of wooly men and women that surrounded them, dressed in bronze armor not unlike the ones her elite warriors had worn. Although Iliana smugly noted that the Vishanti women were nowhere to be seen. She strode forward until she was standing over Aerin, a satisfied smirk on her lips.

“You don’t fight like the rest of your kind,” the Khagan observed as she unhooked the wicked-looking scimitar at her belt and held it aloft, using its sharp point to lift Aerin’s chin. “And by the ‘rest of your kind,’ I mean the Whitetower royals. Who taught you, Gartho? Or should I say,  _ Prince Aerin _ ?”

Aerin grimaced, his hazel eyes burning as he regarded the Khagan. “You let us escape, only to pin us down here. Why?”

The Khagan’s smile only broadened and she shifted her gaze to the warriors surrounding them. She waved her free hand and Iliana felt the pressure on her back momentarily ease before she was yanked up to her knees, wrists pinned behind her back. From this angle, Iliana could now see just how many Vishanti warriors surrounded them.  _ Holy gods.  _ There had to be at least fifty wooly men and women, all of them armed to the teeth.

Once all of Iliana’s party members were no longer face down on the ground, the Khagan turned back to Aerin.

“It is as I told you last night,” the Khagan said smoothly, her voice as dark and rich as the farmland Iliana spent the summers of her youth tending. “I wanted to observe. I had to see for myself just what kind of steel you Morellians are made of. Especially you, Prince. I’m impressed.”

“I admit, this would have been far less worthwhile if your friends did not come back for you, but…” The Khagan shrugged, a small smile on her lips as she shifted her gaze to Iliana. “I was fairly confident in my predictions.”

The Khagan lifted her scimitar even higher, this time making a fine cut in the sharp edge of Aerin’s jaw. Iliana watched, horrified, as a ruby red pearl of blood welled up and slid down the flat of her blade. 

“Hm.” The Khagan frowned. Iliana sagged in relief as the Vishanti ruler dropped her blade and flicked the blood off its edge. “I thought you might bleed black.”

Iliana felt her heart stop in her chest just as Aerin’s eyes narrowed. “And why might I do that?”

“Please.” The Khagan waved her scimitar dismissively. “I know all about your romp with the Shadow Court. The halflings that live at our borders hear what I cannot. And they report to me, because of their mixed heritage, the wooly men do not forget them. Not like your family has.” She shook her head, driving her blade into the earth, which gave away easily beneath her force. “I also know that you aren’t spies, either. In fact, your kingdom does not even want you. Not alive, at least. But rest assured, King Arlan doesn’t know you’re here. So you don’t have to worry about that. Yet.”

“And why not?” Aerin questioned, his voice as cold and demanding as Iliana had ever heard it. She did not know how he possessed the strength to act as such, especially given the position he was in. The position they were all in. She assumed that it was another act, but for what purpose? She did not know. Perhaps his anger was true.

“Because maybe I want you alive,” the Khagan replied, tilting her head, hazel eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “I don’t want to send you back to the so-called Gentle King any more than you want to return.”

“Why? If Morellians find out that I am here and you are keeping me, the Lords of Whitetower will want to declare war on Vishanti.” Aerin tilted his head, jaw clenched. A thin rivulet of blood trailed down the taut muscles of his neck, disappearing into the furs of his clothing. “How did you even figure out who I am?”

At this, the Khagan’s lips split into a feral grin, her hazel eyes glittering with satisfaction as if she had been waiting for this question.

“Because, young prince,” she replied softly, staring into the gaze that was a perfect twin to her own. “I would recognize the eyes of the Halfling Queen anywhere.”


	14. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashes to embers.

_“I would recognize the eyes of the Halfling Queen anywhere.”_

Iliana’s lips parted. _The Halfling Queen?_

Aerin paled, the first sign of discomfort she had seen from him so far. His throat bobbed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She’s still out there, you know,” the Khagan said, her tone almost nonchalant, as if she was completely oblivious to Aerin’s stricken expression. “Living in one of our villages near the base of the mountains. I’ve spoken to her myself on many occasions. I know all about her two sons. Baldur, the brave Crown Prince, and his younger brother, the kind and gentle Aerin.” She paused to let out an amused laugh. “Well. Not so kind and gentle anymore.”

The Khagan crouched before Aerin, resting her forearms on her knees. “I could take you to her.”

“I thought the Queen was dead,” Tyril remarked, bewildered. It was the first time anyone but Aerin had spoken ever since they had been captured. “Killed in a hunting accident.”

That was what Iliana had believed as well. She wracked her brain for any information Aerin had ever provided her about his mother, but they had rarely breached the topic. It seemed too personal for her to mention, and after all, it had happened years ago. Iliana thought it to be a wound that had long since healed. She had figured that if Aerin had needed or wanted to talk about her, like he did with Baldur, he might have let something slip. 

As she sifted through her recollection of all of her conversations with Aerin, she only came across one mention of his mother. 

Iliana gasped. “That day in the forest… When you spoke of her, it was in the present tense.”

_Even my mother stayed away. She is just as reclusive as I was, hiding away in her rooms after long days of politicking and entertaining her court. Although at least she ignored me and Baldur equally._

When Aerin met her gaze, she saw the truth. 

“That’s because she’s not dead,” the Khagan replied, her hazel eyes trained on Aerin’s. Hazel eyes, just like his own. Just like his mother’s. “Tell them, prince. Tell them how your mother _ran away.”_

Aerin broke Iliana’s stare, his lips twisting into a vicious scowl. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? That she’s a halfling? That she even survived in the wild long enough to find your people?”

“I don’t need to convince you, Prince. You already know.” She reached out, tilting his face up almost tenderly. She brushed the back of a single knuckle against that rough scab that still marred his face. “I can take you to her.”

“Why?” Aerin asked, voice full of suspicion. “Why would you do that for me? Why would you care?”

“Because when your father dies, Prince Aerin,” the Khagan said, her voice dangerously soft. “Someone has to take the throne. I want it to be you. And when you are crowned king, I want you to remember this kindness I have done you. Remember that I let you live and reunited your family.”

“Remember this so that when you need a favor, I will grant it?” Aerin snapped, jerking his head away from the Khagan’s touch. “Well, I regret to inform you that you’re placing your bets on the wrong man. The Morellians would never have me as their king. Not after what I have done.”

The Khagan shrugged as if Aerin’s treason and various crimes were little more than mere inconveniences. “There will always be dissent for any ruler. In due time, and with the proper manipulations, your people may change their minds.”

Aerin looked doubtful, lips twisting as if to protest, but then he schooled his face into a mask of neutrality. “If I agree to this… If I go with you to see my mother, what will you do with my friends?”

“I won’t harm a hair on their heads,” the Khagan promised. “They can wait here at the fortress until we return.” She tilted her head towards Iliana. “You can even bring the elf girl with us if you’d like.”

To Aerin’s credit, he did not glance Iliana’s way, even though she felt the tips of her ears warm with embarrassment.

“And if I refuse?”

The Khagan’s gaze darkened. “Then I still take you prisoner, you don’t see your mother, and I kill your friends.”

“Two wonderful options,” Aerin remarked dryly and the Khagan smirked.

“I knew I liked you, Prince.” The Khagan searched his face. “So what will it be? Will we be enemies or allies?”

Aerin’s face hardened. “Take me to my mother first. Then we can discuss.”

The Khagan howled with laughter, then nodded to the warrior that held Aerin’s arms behind his back. Immediately, the wooly man released him. The Khagan stood, offering Aerin a hand. “Your mother said you were smarter than your brute of a brother. Cautious and intelligent.”

Iliana noticed Aerin’s shoulders tense ever so slightly as he wrapped his fingers around the Khagan’s forearm. “Unfortunately for you,” he said lowly. “She’s right.”

Aerin yanked on the Khagan’s arm, throwing her off balance as he stretched his other hand out, plucking Iliana’s old sword from the ground and slashing it across her shins. As she stumbled to her knees, crying out in pain, Aerin shoved himself to his feet and darted around her, sliding one arm beneath hers to bar across her chest as his other held the blade to her throat. 

Instantly, the surrounding warriors lunged forward as if to act, but Aerin jerked the Khagan back, holding the blade closer to her neck. “Move and your ruler dies.”

“You’re making a mistake, boy,” the Khagan snarled and Aerin only tightened his grip on the sword. 

“Holy gods,” Mal muttered as the wooly men stilled and Iliana silently echoed the sentiment. She felt a bit of pride bloom in her chest, noting that the position Aerin now held the Khagan in was the one she had used on him earlier when they accessed the supply room.

“We came through these mountains for Iliana and her brother, not to get involved in your power plays.” Aerin’s face was calm, although his voice was harsh as he addressed the warriors that held his companions. “Let my friends go.”

Iliana felt the man behind her shift hesitantly, but no one moved.

“I _said,”_ Aerin snapped, letting the sword’s edge kiss the Khagan’s throat. _“Let my friends go.”_

“Do it!” the Khagan demanded as she tilted her head back, doing what she could to move away from the blade. 

The warriors obeyed and Iliana let out a sigh of relief as the tight grip on her wrists slackened and her arms were released. She quickly got to her feet, retrieving the Blade of Sol from the muddy ground. As she gazed around, Iliana saw that aside from a dark bruise that bloomed on Mal’s cheekbone and the blood that dribbled down Imtura’s chin from a split lip, they appeared to be otherwise unharmed. When Iliana turned to Aerin, she saw the silent question in his gaze. _Are you okay?_

Her head still throbbed from the hit she had taken, but other than that, she felt alright. She nodded back. 

Aerin looked doubtful, his eyes lingering on the bloody gash on her temple. Eventually, he turned away, staring down the rest of the warriors as he addressed the Khagan. “Tell them to clear a path and stay where they are. You are going to lead us toward the nearest mountain pass, and when we are far enough away, I will let you go.”

“You’re going to regret this,” the Khagan hissed and Aerin rolled his eyes, unruffled.

“There is a long list of things that I regret doing,” he said flatly, hefting the Khagan to her feet. “This will sit at the bottom of it.”

The Khagan grunted as she put her weight on her injured legs and ordered her warriors to do as Aerin asked. “Clear the way and stay where you are.” She pointed northeast. “The nearest path is in that direction. If you follow it, it will take you through the Frostwhisper Mountains and into the fields beyond.”

“Good,” Aerin replied gruffly, urging the Khagan forward. “Let’s go.”

Silently, the rest of the party followed Aerin as he half-guided, half-dragged the Vishanti ruler forward through the horde of warriors and into the open forest beyond. Iliana stayed behind him, her sword still held at the ready just in case the Khagan managed to break out of Aerin’s grasp and run. 

They continued like this for a short while until the Khagan’s men and her fortress were far behind them. Aerin stopped as they reached a ridge that overlooked a gradual slope. At the bottom of the incline, Iliana saw the pass the Khagan spoke of. 

“There,” the Khagan said, her voice harsh and bitter. “You have your way out. Now let me go.”

“Why should we?” Imtura demanded, hefting one of her axes. “You shot us out of the sky, imprisoned us, lied to us, released our drakes, and then put us through your stupid games for your own amusement! We should kill you where you stand and let your wolves have your remains.”

Nia made a startled sound. “Oh, Imtura―”

“Because if you kill me, my people will be obligated to avenge me. They will not stop hunting until every single one of you is dead,” the Khagan promised, her voice an animalistic snarl. “If you leave me here, I promise you, I won’t send my men after you. You have my word.”

Aerin glared at the back of the Khagan’s head, then huffed, “Fine. Now about Iliana’s brother.” He glanced toward her for confirmation before he asked, “Have you seen anyone come through here?”

The Khagan scowled. “A boy passed by a few days ago. He clearly wasn’t a threat, so we let him go. But he’s long gone by now. If he’s not already dead, he’d be crossing into the poison fields by now. There, he will certainly meet his end.”

“My brother’s smart,” Iliana snapped, her hand hovering over the pommel of her sword. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

The Khagan turned her steely gaze on her. “I hope I’m wrong, girl. But I rarely am. Your brother is on a suicide mission. He will never find the Old Gods.”

Iliana’s brow furrowed. “You said last night that your people have tried to find them. What comes after the poison fields?”

“Don’t tell me you are planning to go after them, too,” the Khagan scoffed, then seeing everyone’s expressions, she sneered. “You’re all fools then.”

Aerin jerked her head back. “Just answer the question.”

“Rysoth!” she snapped, grimacing. “Rysoth lays beyond. But no one knows how to find the rainforests. If anyone figured it out, they either did not share how or they did not come back.”

“That’s impossible,” Tyril seethed. “How does an entire rainforest go missing?”

“I don’t know, elf,” the Khagan snarled. “I’ve never gone looking. Some people say the world ends at the edge of the poison fields. Others say that Rysoth fell ages ago, lost to fire ash.”

Iliana and her companions glanced uneasily at each other. This did not bode well.

“Have I satisfied you yet?” the Khagan asked dryly. Aerin looked at Iliana, gaze questioning, and she nodded. She did not have anything else to add.

“They’re done,” Aerin said as he turned back to the Khagan. “But I have one more question. About my mother.”

Iliana still could not believe that Aerin’s mother was alive. It had been years since King Arlan announced to all of Morella that the Queen had died in a tragic hunting accident, just as Tyril had said. Now she was supposed to believe that the Queen had run away? The only thing that stopped Iliana from calling it a bald-faced lie was that Aerin did not even so much as balk at the Khagan’s revelation. 

_Because he knew it was true._ All of this time, the rest of the kingdom believed the Queen to be dead, and Aerin knew the truth. 

She could not believe he had never told her, but then again, Aerin had a habit of keeping major secrets. Iliana wondered if he had kept this one because he did not trust her with it, or because it was so old and buried so deep, it no longer mattered. Maybe this was a ghost of the past that was not meant to come back.

There was also the fact that the Queen was apparently a halfling. Which, Iliana supposed, also made Aerin one. This, at least, seemed to surprise him. He certainly did not _look_ like one of the wooly men. Neither did Baldur, beastly as he was. And Iliana imagined that the Queen did not either, considering no one, not even Aerin seemed to know that they had descended from the Vishanti people. So, the relation must have been incredibly distant―the Khagan even said as much. 

_The crossing happened far up my line. Hasn’t been a full human halfling in centuries._

The Khagan grunted, shifting around the edge of the old sword, clearly uncomfortable. “Ask it.”

“My mother,” Aerin started, some of the steeliness leaving his gaze. “Does she know? About me? About… what I have done?”

Iliana frowned, glancing back in the direction of the fortress. She wanted to ask, _Is now really the time for this?_ But Aerin had been offered the chance to find his mother and he turned it down. For Kade. For her. She supposed they could spare a moment for this.

“She knows, Prince,” the Khagan answered, and Iliana could not tell whether the Khagan’s expression was damning or sympathetic. “She knows everything.”

At this, Aerin’s face hardened, his eyes burning like hot coals. For a moment, Iliana thought he might demand more, _do_ more. But then he exhaled sharply and let Iliana’s sword fall to his side.

“We’re done here,” he said, suddenly pale, chest rising and falling unsteadily as he shoved the Khagan away, letting her tumble to the ground. “Let’s go.”

Iliana wanted to reach for him, to steady his trembling hands, when the Khagan put two fingers to her lips and whistled sharply. Before she even finished her signal, Imtura lunged forward and kicked her across the face, knocking her out cold.

“What in the seven hells was that?” Mal scowled, eyes scouring the forest around them.

“Some sort of signal,” Tyril concluded, fists tightening around the hilt of his sword as he started to back away.

“But for what?” Iliana questioned, sheathing her sword and drawing her bow.

Their answer came in the form of a howl, loud and clear.

And close.

Aerin swore. “The wolves.”

Almost instantly, they heard vicious snarling and the thrum of paws pounding the earth, the dreadful beat of nature’s war song.

“We need to go!” Tyril ordered, starting for the edge of the ridge. “Now!”

“Right there with you, buddy!” Mal huffed, turning to sprint after Tyril, grabbing Nia’s elbow and tugging her and Threep along as he went. Barely even a moment later, several wolves emerged from between the surrounding trees, blurs of white fur, dark eyes, and snapping jaws. 

Imtura let out a feral roar and swung her war hammer, bashing it into the side of a pouncing wolf as she shouted, “Keep going! We’ll cover you!”

Iliana fired off two arrows in quick succession, feeling a twinge of regret over felling such beautiful creatures. But as Iliana kept shooting to cover the others’ retreat, she reminded herself they were as deadly as they were august, and there was not much time to come up with another solution. 

“Iliana! On your left!” 

She turned on instinct, loosing an arrow and watching it fly clear through a large amber eye. The white wolf let out a broken whimper, then tumbled to the ground, sliding to a stop at Iliana’s feet. Breathing hard, she whirled to see Aerin firing the last of his crossbow bolts into the pack of wolves that came towards them. Panic rose in her chest. She thought he had kept running with Mal, Nia, and Tyril. 

“What are you doing?” she demanded, just as a nearby tree exploded into flame. She turned and found Tyril standing at the top of the slope, hands outstretched as he conjured more fire. Nia and Mal were already over the edge, slipping and sliding down the mountainside to the pass below. Iliana shot two more arrows, each one finding their mark, and then grabbed Aerin’s shoulder, pushing him towards Tyril. “Go!”

“You first,” Aerin snapped, grabbing her forearm and pulling her with him.

“Aerin―argh!” Iliana huffed as he dragged her along. Imtura followed after them, shouting to keep going as she wielded her hand axes and hammer against the oncoming wolves, a snarling whirlwind of fang and steel.

As they drew closer to Tyril, he unleashed a torrent of magic that beat the wolves back, forming a wall of flame that licked up the trunks of the towering pines. Imtura broke away from the wolves that hounded her and began sprinting, taking advantage of this brief moment of respite to gain some ground.

“Hurry!” Tyril urged them as he crested the ridge and started down the slope. “That won’t hold them for long!”

Iliana and Aerin were about to start down the mountainside when the first of the wolves burst through Tyril’s dwindling wall of flame, charging towards Imtura.

“Just can’t catch a break, can we?” Iliana muttered as she yanked her arm free of Aerin’s grasp and started to pick off the wolves with her arrows. As Imtura drew closer, another cry sounded in the distance. A war horn.

“The wooly men,” Aerin muttered as he fired his last bolt. He tossed the crossbow aside and unsheathed Iliana’s sword. “They’re coming.”

“There’s no way we’re going to be able to outrun them _and_ the wolves,” Iliana panted, firing off more arrows as her gaze stayed on Imtura, who was still fighting off the white beasts. “Imtura, leave them! Just run!”

“Damned mutts!” Imtura snarled as she kicked one back and turned to race toward them, limping on a bloody leg. Her clothes were torn in places, shredded by the teeth and claws of the Vishanti wolves. Before Iliana could notch her next arrow, another wolf pounced, knocking Imtura to the ground.

“No!” Iliana’s next arrow pierced the wolf in the flank and she moved to race back when Aerin caught her arm.

“I’ll get her. You cover us.”

Iliana hesitated, then nodded, notching another arrow. Imtura shoved the animal off of her just as Aerin arrived, looping his arms beneath Imtura’s to help her up.

“Thanks, princeling,” Imtura huffed as she got to her feet.

“Can you run?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Aerin released her and they raced to the edge of the ridge while Iliana continued to shoot down as many wolves as she could. Before long, of the wolves that dared to cross the line of fire, only one remained. She was about to let another arrow fly straight into the chest of the last Vishanti wolf, which was close on Imtura’s heels, when a bolt flew out of the trees, clipping Iliana’s shoulder and knocking her down.

Iliana cried out as she dropped her bow and hit the ground hard, her arm blazing in pain. When she glanced down, her clothes were wet with blood, but she was relieved to see that the wound did not look serious. She considered herself lucky that the bolt did not pierce her shoulder. Iliana pushed herself up to the elbow of her good arm, scanning the scene for the warrior who shot her when her gaze snagged on Aerin and Imtura. They were just barely to the edge of the ridge when the last wolf lunged, claws outstretched towards Imtura.

What happened next tore a scream from Iliana’s throat that was so raw and guttural, she did not even register that it had escaped through her mouth. She watched, her heart slamming against her ribcage as Aerin turned, spotted the wolf, and used all of his weight to shove Imtura to the side before getting tackled himself.

 _“Aerin!”_ Iliana’s voice was caught between a scream and a sob as he and the wolf went tumbling right over the edge.

* * *

There was blood everywhere.

Aerin could feel it coating his hands, hot and sticky, the metallic stench clawing its way down his throat. The wolf’s body was a warm, leaden weight on top of him, those amber eyes staring lifelessly into his own. Amidst the scent of copper and earth, Aerin could smell the reek of carrion wafting from the wolf’s gaping maw and felt bile rise in his throat.

Over the wolf’s shoulder, he could see the top of the incline he had barreled down. He felt the ghost of heat against his face as a wave of flame and light rolled overhead, igniting the pine trees and shrubs that lined the top of the slope, temporarily blocking more wolves from following. _Nia and Tyril._

As Aerin regained his bearings, he realized that someone was screaming his name. _Iliana._

Clarity came back to him in a rush. _Iliana._ Last he had seen her, she was on the ground, shot down by an arrow. He felt panic stir in him, forcing his leaden limbs to awaken. Was she alright? Was she still up on that ridge?

Aerin shoved against the wolf’s body when it was suddenly lifted off of him, nothing more than a bundle of white fur matted with blood. So much blood. The thought of killing that creature made him sick.

Imtura stood over him, shock written all over her features as she shook her head, dumbfounded. “You… you almost got yourself killed to save my life! Why would you do that?”

Aerin did not really have an answer for that. He didn’t remember making a choice to push Imtura out of the way, he just did it, instincts acting before his mind caught up. It was just like the time he had stopped Baldur’s arrow from killing the unicorn in the Deadwood. In both situations, there had never been a voice in his head that told him what to do, just an overwhelming urge to protect.

Aerin did not get the chance to respond―not that he had an answer for Imtura anyway―because a sudden, small and whimpering noise drew his attention. A sob. _Iliana._

She fell to her knees beside him, face twisted with grief and horror as she took in his blood-stained clothes. He was certain that he had never seen her so shaken. Aerin knew instantly that he did not like seeing her worried like this, even if it was, surprisingly, for him. It made his heart, wicked thing that it was, ache.

“Oh gods, Aerin,” Iliana breathed as her fingers fluttered over his chest, frantic. “Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not,” he said softly but Iliana did not seem to hear. For a moment, he thought she might cry.

“There’s so much blood,” she whispered hoarsely as she reached up to yank open his doublet but Aerin laid his hands over hers, holding them still.

“It’s not mine,” he assured her and when Iliana still did not look up from the blood that coated his chest, he squeezed her hands tighter. “Iliana. It’s not mine.” He nodded toward the wolf’s corpse. “Look.”

She followed his gaze to find her old sword, plunged up to the hilt in the wolf’s chest. He watched her breathe a sigh of relief, the first one he was pretty sure she had taken ever since she arrived by his side. When she turned to face him once more, he saw the reproach in her eyes. 

“What the _hells_ were you thinking?” she demanded, although her voice lacked any real fire. 

Aerin rolled his eyes, pushing himself up with one hand as the other still held hers. “Don’t act like you would not have done the same thing.”

“That’s―I―”

“You saved my life,” Imtura repeated, shaking her head, still astonished.

“Not the time, Immy! Iliana, fawn over him later!” Mal shouted from the mountain pass. He, Nia, Tyril, and Threep had safely made it to the base of the incline. No sooner had he said that did the war horn sound again, much closer this time.

Imtura shook herself out of her daze first. “He’s right.”

“Up you go, princeling,” Imtura said as she ducked, looping her arm beneath Aerin’s shoulders and lifting him to his feet. She reached out to dust off his clothes but only ended up smearing some blood across his leather doublet. “You okay?”

Aerin nodded slowly as Imtura stepped back. That was… odd. But he decided not to question it. “I’m well.”

Iliana yanked her old sword from the cavity of the wolf’s chest, cleaning off the blood on the surrounding shrubbery before she handed it back to Aerin. As she did, he noticed the nasty gash on the side of her arm. “Iliana, your shoulder―”

She shook her head. “I’m okay. I’ll heal it later. Right now―”

She was cut off by that war horn again, and this time, the call was accompanied by the sound of pounding footsteps. In unison, the three of them looked up the mountain. Tyril’s flames were still burning, eating up the shrubbery like hungry beasts, but the Vishanti warriors that stood beyond them were fierce and determined. The fire would not hold them for long.

“Right now,” Iliana finished, slipping her fingers through Aerin’s. “We need to run.”

No one argued with that. They raced down the mountainside toward the pass where the others waited, slipping and sliding on the loose earth but never once slowing their pace. Behind them, the wooly men bellowed their fury, the first few lines braving the fire in their pursuit as bolts and arrows whizzed over the party’s heads.

“We can’t outrun them,” Iliana stated as they reached the narrow mountain pass. It wound before them, disappearing around the curve of the mountain. Aerin noticed that there was an area far up ahead that was extremely narrow, bordered by the jagged face of the mountain on the left side and a lethal drop into a ravine on the other. 

“We have to try,” Aerin panted, holding her hand tighter as arrows shattered themselves on the granite around them. 

For what seemed like an eternity, they sprinted along the path, the Vishanti warriors drawing ever nearer, their arrows and other projectiles coming dangerously close to meeting their marks. When they came upon the narrowest part of the trail that curved around the mountainside, Imtura went first, followed by Aerin, and finally Iliana. 

As they edged along the path, a sudden cry of dismay pierced the air. On instinct, Aerin glanced back toward Iliana, but she had not been the source of that sound. No, it came from up ahead. Aerin picked up his pace, Iliana hot on his heels.

When they came around the bend, they finally saw the rest of their party, standing only a short distance ahead. But Aerin’s body went cold with dread as he realized what kept them from going forward, why Nia had cried out earlier. 

The pass was blocked by a towering pile of rubble, the effects of a recent landslide. With time and caution, they could pick their way across the mound and continue on, but judging by how loud the wooly men had become, they only had a short while before the warriors were upon them.

“Godsdammit!” Mal hissed, grabbing one of the rocks to pull himself up, only to have it come loose, causing several more to spill onto the path.

“We’re trapped,” Iliana murmured hollowly as she shook her head, crestfallen. “After all of this, we’re trapped.”

“We just have to fight our way out again,” Nia said, conjuring an Orb of Light in her hands, although it flickered and dimmed. Her strength was waning. All of them… they had already fought so hard, ran so far… Aerin knew that they could not keep this up.

They were going to die.

Something in his chest cracked, stirring the cold ashes that had settled there for so long.

Mal turned away from the landslide, his expression uncharacteristically somber as he squeezed Nia’s shoulder. “I’m not sure we can fight our way out of this one, priestess.”

No, even if they wanted to fight, there was no space for a skirmish, and they were vastly outnumbered.

The war cries grew louder. In a handful of moments, the warriors would round the bend and become visible once more, putting the party within range of their weapons.

“At least you can see the sun and sky again, Nia,” Tyril said gently as Nia’s face fell, the dire reality settling in. Threep poked his head out of her satchel, his tail curling around her wrist in comfort, his mismatched eyes sorrowful.

Out of those ashes, a few embers began to glow.

“So this is really it then?” Imtura asked, hooking her axes back on her belt. “After the Shadow Court and the Dreadlord, we’re going down at the hands of a bunch of overgrown balls of lint?”

“It’s not exactly a death you’d hear songs about in taverns,” Mal admitted with a shrug, the humor in his voice forced. “But there are worse ways to go than surrounded by you lot.”

A fire sparked to life in Aerin’s chest, warmth blooming through his body.

He felt Iliana’s hand slip into his once more as she led him off to the side, away from the rest of the group. Her expression was soft and remorseful, green eyes full of regret.

“I’m sorry, Aerin,” she murmured, her other hand cupping the back of his. She bit her lip and shook her head, silver lining the edges of her eyes. She squeezed them shut and a crystalline tear slipped free, sparkling like a fallen star. When she spoke, her voice wavered. “This is my fault. I got you into this mess. I didn’t… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Aerin squeezed her hand, stepping toward her, closing the gap between them. When he spoke, he offered only the truth. “This isn’t anyone’s fault. I wanted to be here. I _want_ to be here. You’ve given me more freedom in the last few days than I ever had in all of my years.”

Iliana’s brows drew together, her lips twisting as if to hold in a ragged breath. When she opened her eyes again, they were filled with a tenderness that made Aerin’s knees feel weak. He could not remember a time when anyone had ever held him in their gaze with such gentleness. In a way, some part of him was glad that he had never before known this quiet sort of affection because now that he had felt its warmth, he realized that it was something he could no longer bear to live without.

Iliana reached out, laying her hand against the side of his face, the side that was still beaten and scabbed over. Her thumb swiped across his rough cheek and Aerin felt her Light seep into him, finally healing over the wound so that only smooth, unmarred skin remained.

At that moment, she looked so unbelievably beautiful to him, even with her reddened eyes and tearstained cheeks. She always looked lovely, but there was something about the way she looked now, the way she was looking at _him_ , that made him crumble to pieces. He felt at once invincible and so incredibly mortal, like a man dancing along the precarious border between life and death, equally enamored with both sides.

“For what it’s worth,” Iliana began softly, a rueful smile on her lips. “I would have you, Aerin. However you are. Always.”

Aerin could not breathe. His fingers tightened around hers. “Iliana…”

“Until the stars align for us again…” Iliana whispered as she leaned up and pressed her lips to his.

Aerin began to burn.

Every nerve in his body sang with the contact as he leaned towards her, drawn in by some inexplicable force. He was like a moonbloom, hidden in forgotten places, forever reaching for the night sky, and she was all of the stars.

Aerin released her hand to cradle her face gently, kissing her just as sweetly as he had before they parted ways in the Deadwood, when their fate had set them on diverging paths and she had brought about his downfall. 

No, not his downfall. His _undoing._ Whether she knew it or not―whether _he_ knew it or not, Aerin realized that she had unmade him and remade him into something new. And she could continue to do so for as long as she pleased.

 _Can I ever trust you?_ she had asked only last night, when their heads had been buzzing with alcohol and their thoughts flowed like cherry wine.

 _Yes,_ he thought. _But not right now._

Aerin pulled away, even though it felt a little bit like dying to do so, and rested his forehead against Iliana's as he swiped his thumb across her cheek in a silent apology. He watched as whatever resolve showed on his face registered in her expression. That damned line formed between her brows and her lips parted, prepared to protest before she even knew what exactly he was going to do.

As he dropped his hands, Iliana reached for them, holding on once more. “Aerin?”

He squeezed her fingers once, then released them before turning back in the direction they had come from, where the Vishanti warriors were starting to come around the bend. He felt that familiar heat blaze throughout his body like a wildfire, sensed the air around him warp and pulse, space condensing inward as his focus narrowed to a fine point on the mountainside.

“Aerin.” Iliana’s voice was sharper now, concerned and questioning.

Aerin raised his arms and a wave of darkness exploded from his hands.

* * *

Iliana fell to her knees as the ground shook beneath her. There was a horrible, violent crashing sound, as if the world had been torn asunder and then smashed back together. A great plume of dust clouded the air, billowing like Alcmene’s gauzy curtains did when the northeastern wind swept through the creaking halls of Iliana’s childhood home. Small flecks of granite rained down around Iliana and her companions, bouncing harmlessly over the side of the pass. Or at least… what remained of it. 

“Holy gods,” someone―Mal―breathed.

 _Holy gods indeed._ Iliana looked back at the path they had raced along, but there was nothing there but the jagged face of the mountain. The trail had been blown away, leaving nothing behind but a pile of granite at the bottom of the valley.

_What happened?_

_Aerin._ Iliana felt her fear rise as she scanned the intact platform of rock she and her companions remained on until she found the prince, who lay prone on the ground near the edge. She crawled over to him, not yet trusting her legs to walk or the stone beneath them to remain stable after that blast. When she reached him, she felt her ribs nearly crack with the air of relief that filled her lungs after she noticed that he was still breathing.

Even though it made her wounded shoulder throb, she hauled him into her lap, wrapping her arms protectively around his torso. 

_What have you done?_

Iliana learned a while ago that in a world as strange and full of magic as theirs was, anything was possible. And because of this, she usually trusted her own eyes, unless she suspected that the scene before her was some sort of illusion as it had been with the egovore. But the scene before her was absolutely _not_ an illusion. She had seen the mountain pass explode, stopping the Vishanti warriors from advancing toward them. She had seen dark power strike the granite surface like a whip. And she had seen that dark power _come from Aerin._

She looked down Aerin’s unconscious form in her arms. Even through his thick clothing, she could feel his body burning like a dark sun. Her gaze traveled over his face as her heart pounded vigorously in her chest, her blood roaring in her ears. Aerin’s skin was pale―so pale, Iliana would have thought he was dead if it had not been for the fact that she could feel his chest rise and fall beneath her palm. His face shimmered with a thin sheen of sweat and his lips were thin and wan, but what made Iliana’s chest stop in her chest was the realization that Aerin’s veins were a spiderweb of inky black.

Iliana was not sure she was breathing at all as she watched the shadow fade from his veins, dissipating the way dark clouds dispersed in the wake of a storm. She dragged her gaze up to find all of her companions staring down at the prince, their expressions ranging from bewilderment to dark fury. They had all seen.

Iliana swallowed the lump in her throat and gazed out at the ruined mountainside.

This was going to be a problem.


	15. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All magic comes with a price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: blood and violence

_When Baldur turned eighteen, King Arlan held a hunt in his honor._

_Aerin hated these outings. They were long and boring and, on summer days such as this one, sweltering hot. He tugged on the high collar of his riding clothes as he sat atop his horse, uncomfortable. The fabric was itchy and stiff, and Aerin was certainly sweating under all of these clothes. It was ludicrous to be wearing all of these layers with their complicated laces and clasps_ ― _it was impractical, worn for pomp and appearances rather than functionality._

_He at least tried his best not to look too miserable as he rode his steed through the heartoak forest that bordered the capital city alongside the rest of the hunting party, which consisted of King Arlan, the Captain of the Royal Guard, the Queen, Baldur, and several of the most influential lords and ladies of Whitetower. Aerin knew that although this outing was held to commemorate the coming of Baldur’s eighteenth year, it was also his father’s way of currying favor for his newest project: reconstructing the city’s aqueducts._

_The_ real _celebration came later. Tonight, after the feast, Baldur would sneak out into the slums to have his fun. Aerin, of course, would not be joining him. He was still much too young for the taverns and pleasure houses, and even if he wasn’t, he had no interest in joining in on his brother’s night of debauchery. Instead, he would stay in and read one of the new books he had picked up in the Market District. Or perhaps Aerin would sneak out into the Temple District and pay a visit to the Temple of Light. Things were getting bad in his head again, and he needed someone’s_ ―anyone’s― _guidance._

 _And tomorrow, he and Baldur would set off for the first time without either of their parents, venturing into the distant reaches of their kingdom in search of one of the Crown Prince’s mythical beasts. Aerin did not yet know if this trip was a blessing or a curse. On one hand, he would finally have the opportunity to get out of Whitetower and see Morella without all of the ridiculousness of a royal procession_ ― _even if they did still have some of the frills in their caravan. After all, Baldur could only go so long without luxury. But on the other hand, he would be traveling in close quarters with his brother for two weeks, which left him with very little time for himself. So if Baldur was in one of his moods… well, it would be a very hellish journey indeed._

_When Aerin snapped himself out of his thoughts, he realized that the procession had come to a halt. His father and Baldur stood at the head of the procession, addressing the assembled lords and ladies. The king was in the middle of some speech about Baldur’s coming of age and how proud he was to have such a brave man as his heir. Aerin fought down the urge to roll his eyes. Surely everyone here already knew that as brave as Baldur was, he was also as thick-skulled as they came. He would never make a good king, not without a steady hand to guide him. And even with the wisest of advisors at his side, Aerin knew that Baldur would never listen to anyone but himself._

_Gods have mercy on their kingdom._

_Aerin probably should have been standing up there with his father and brother, but even his mother stayed amongst her ladies in waiting, dressed her cream-colored riding outfit and cloaked in a hooded cape of sky blue. As always, she was content to stay on the sidelines as an observer. Just like him._

_Aerin watched as Baldur silently scanned the assembly gathered for him, a proud lift to the corners of his lips. When his eyes found Aerin’s, his mouth curved into a smug smirk, his brow raising as if to ask,_ Jealous?

_Aerin wanted to scoff. Jealous of this dreadful celebration? Never. He did not see the appeal in hunts such as this. They were only entertaining for the few moments in which some game was caught, and Aerin had no interest in actually hunting any creatures. As his father continued speaking, Aerin gazed down at the crossbow in his lap, running his hands over the smooth wood of the stock. There was no reason for any of this. They always had more than enough meat in the kitchens to feed the entire palace staff. This was just killing for sport, killing because they could. And it was wasteful._

_No, he was not jealous of this little outing. But… jealous of Baldur? Maybe._

_“Now let the hunt begin!” King Arlan announced with a flourish and the assembled crowd applauded_ ― _certainly startling off any nearby quarries_ ― _before galloping away, weaving into the surrounding trees._

_Aerin was about to ride off in a random direction in search of a place to hide and wait until the hunt was over when his brother ordered, “Aerin! With me.”_

_Aerin groaned inwardly as he reluctantly steered his steed toward Baldur, who waited with a few other young lords and servants, a cocky grin plastered on his face. “Enjoying yourself today, little brother?”_

_“Of course,” Aerin answered meekly, even as he fought back the urge to snap. “It’s a wonderful day for a hunt.”_

_“Hm. Good,” Baldur replied, although Aerin noted he almost looked disappointed, as if he had hoped Aerin would admit to having a miserable time. “Ride with me for a while. I would like to make sure my little brother gets at least_ one _prize for himself today.”_

_That was… unexpectedly thoughtful of him. Which made Aerin wary. Nevertheless, he nodded, taking care to keep any suspicion from tainting his voice as he nodded gratefully and said, “Thank you, brother.”_

_Throughout the afternoon, Aerin accompanied the Crown Prince and the other lords, simply following wherever they roamed in their search for pheasants and the occasional deer. For a while, it had seemed that Baldur had forgotten about him, which did not bother Aerin in the slightest. He simply cantered along, gazing at the towering heartoak trees, whose leaves were beginning to transform into their autumnal hues as summer drew to a close. As the day wore on, the shifting shadows of the canopy provided some respite from the blazing sun and a lackadaisical breeze swept through the forest, curling along the nape of his sweaty neck. He sighed at the sweet relief, the wind carrying his breath away._

_Aerin dawdled at the back of the pack, content to let the others seek out and attempt to bring down prey. So far, only Baldur had any success with the hunt. Aerin admitted that he had to give his older brother some credit_ ― _Baldur could certainly accomplish a lot and find success in the things he thought were worth putting effort into. Now if only Baldur would put effort into things that were_ actually _worthwhile…_

_Aerin sighed. There was no use hoping when Baldur would never change._

_As the small group came to yet another stop, Aerin’s gaze snagged on a cluster of toadstools arranged in a near-perfect circle. How odd…_

_He was about to investigate when Baldur whispered from the head of the group, “Brother! Come here. And stay quiet.”_

_Aerin swore softly under his breath, using one of the few curses he had learned by listening to the palace servants when they thought no one else was around. He brought his horse to Baldur’s side, moving slowly to stay as silent as possible. As he drew near, Baldur waved him closer, holding one finger to his lips as he reached behind Aerin’s back to rest his hand on his opposite shoulder._

_“What?” Aerin whispered, brows furrowed as he studied his brother’s face, which was serious for once._

_“Look,” Baldur urged, dropping his finger from his lips and using it to point toward some spot ahead of them. “Beyond that blackberry bramble.”_

_Aerin followed his brother’s line of sight to see two deer, a doe and her fawn, eating the bittersweet berries from the prickly shrub. As he watched them graze, Aerin felt a weight lift from his lap and something smooth nudge against his knuckles. He met Baldur’s gaze as the crossbow was pressed into his hands._

_“It’s a clear shot,” Baldur told him, encouraging him to lift the weapon. “You should have no trouble finding your mark.”_

_No. No, Aerin did not want to do this. But how could he say that? How could he refuse? They were just deer, after all. Careless creatures that were going to be slaughtered one way or another. Aerin was certain that if he refused to shoot, not only would he be ridiculed, but Baldur or one of the other lords would do it instead._

_As he held the crossbow aloft, pressing the stock against his shoulder, Aerin asked, “Which one should I shoot?”_

_“The doe,” Baldur replied softly, reaching out to adjust Aerin’s posture and steady his aim. “We usually only try to go for the males, but there haven’t been any sightings today. And we don’t shoot the young.”_

_Aerin waited for Baldur to add “yet” but he did not. Aerin nodded, his mouth dry as he aimed. His brother was right. It was a clear shot. He lined up the tip of his bolt with the doe’s caramel-colored flank, then traced it to her head. A shot to the head would be the most lethal, but also the most merciful._

_“Steady now,” Baldur murmured. “You’ve shot a bow before. This is even easier.”_

_That was what Aerin was worried about. He did not want to do this. But he had to shoot._

_He did not, however, have to make the shot. Aerin subtly shifted his crossbow a little higher, the tip aimed just above the doe’s head, close enough to startle the deer and make it look as if he had tried. If he dropped his bow by even the slightest fraction, he would kill the deer. Too high and it would be obvious. There was no way he could miss the kill by a drastic amount, not when the opportunity was so perfect._

_Aerin squeezed the trigger._

_He flinched as the bolt sank into the doe’s skull, right between its eyes. It fell to the ground, dead, and the fawn startled, darting away into the thicket._

_“Ha! Beautiful shot, Aerin!” Baldur commended him, clapping him on the back as the other lords politely applauded. His praise was genuine and the note of pride rang true._

_Aerin felt ill. His aim was not good enough. He had killed the doe._

_Aerin gave his brother a broad grin, hoping it did not look false on his face. “Thank you.”_

_Baldur nodded, his hand sliding from Aerin’s back as he gestured for the servants to retrieve their quarry. “Father will be proud of you. Just as I am,” Baldur said, grabbing his reins and starting to steer his horse away to continue his hunt. “I know you are not fond of these outings. So if you have had enough, you may go back to the palace and indulge yourself in another one of your puzzles or books.” He glanced back, his gaze questioning. “Although you are, of course, welcome to continue on with us.”_

_Gods no. Aerin was certain that if he spent another moment here, he was going to be sick. Aerin tucked the crossbow into his saddlebag and shook his head, yanking on the stiff edge of his high collar and adjusting his Tyrian-colored cape. “That’s alright, brother. I think the heat is starting to get to me. I long for the comfort of a cold room and a glass of mint water.”_

_Baldur merely nodded as if he had been expecting this, although he did not look angry or disappointed. “Very well. I will see you at dinner. Remember, tomorrow, we set off early for the highlands.”_

_“Of course,” Aerin nodded, turning his horse away to take his leave. “Happy hunting.”_

_Aerin guided his horse into a steady trot back toward the main path that led back to the palace, but the moment he was out of his brother’s sight, he goaded his steed into a swift gallop and steered them deeper into the heartoak forest. Thin, low hanging branches whipped against Aerin’s arms and his heart mirrored the rapid thrum of the horse’s hooves against the soft earth as they tore through the woods, swifter than a wild wind._

_His mind was racing. Distantly, a small voice in his head told him that it was only a single deer, meat for the table. Even if it did not feed_ his _family, it would feed someone else’s. It was just a deer. They were hunted all the time._

 _But what upset him even more than that was how_ easy _it was. All it had taken was a slight curl of his finger. Why was it so easy? Killing should not be this easy. Aerin had read about countless battles and wars in his history books, but technology and military strategy had come a long way since the last war. If there were weapons like these implemented in the military_ ― _they most certainly were_ ― _how deadly were the battles? How many casualties?_

_Aerin had only ever known peace. His father was even known as the Gentle King. Whether that moniker was actually deserved or just the result of being fortunate enough to inherit a kingdom in a time of order, Aerin did not know. But peaceful as Morella was, he had seen the Whitetower armory, had seen the new weapons that were being developed. Ballistas still lined the parapets of the palace and the walls that bordered the capital. Trebuchets were still tested in the highlands. To think of the violence that would ensue if another war broke out… It made Aerin sick to even fathom it._

_The coppery scent hit him first._

_Aerin yanked on his reins, pulling his horse to a halt so abrupt, it nearly threw him from the saddle. Chest heaving, he looked around the clearing he found himself in. Through the branches of the surrounding heartoaks, he could see the gleaming spires of the palace, sparkling in the midday light. He couldn’t be too far from the stables now._

_Without the wind rushing by, the stench was stronger now. Aerin held his arm up to his face, covering his mouth and nose, but that unmistakable scent still shoved its way into his nostrils and down his throat. Blood._

_He saw flecks of it on the ground, a sparse trail of crimson that led through the brush. Must have been some sort of animal attack…_

_Aerin was about to guide his horse back toward the palace when his gaze snagged on something colorful_ ― _a strip of sky blue cloth, caught on a low-hanging branch, stained with red. Aerin recognized that fabric. It came from the Queen’s cloak._

 _“Mother!” He snapped his reins, racing through the bushes and following that scarlet trail. As he barreled through the forest, he saw more signs of struggle_ ― _broken branches, unearthed shrubs, and blood. So much blood. “Mother! Where are you?”_

_Aerin was about to call out again when he saw her, standing by a tree, her horse waiting nearby. The front of her dress and her hands were stained in blood. Her hazel eyes were wide as she regarded him. “Aerin?”_

_Aerin dismounted before his horse came to a full stop, before he could see if whatever danger had come through was gone. He ran to his mother, resisting the urge to gag and scream._

_“Are you hurt?” he asked, grabbing her forearms, even as the tackiness made his stomach roil. He scanned her face and her torso, but he could not find where she was bleeding from. It seemed to come from everywhere. “What happened? Oh gods, we need to get you back to the palace. The healers_ ― _”_

_The Queen grabbed his hands, holding them still. When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly stern and calm. “Aerin, stop.”_

_“You’re hurt badly!” he exclaimed, panic creeping into his voice. He pulled away, reaching to tear the fabric of his cloak into strips for bandages. “Just tell me where_ ―”

_“I am alright, Aerin,” the Queen insisted, holding up her hands. She pointed to the side. “It’s not mine, Aerin. See? It’s not mine. I got it from the palace butcher.”_

_“What…” Aerin followed her hand to see two buckets of thick, syrupy blood stationed by the base of the heartoak tree. When he looked up, he noticed that there were two other horses in the clearing beside his own: the one his mother had been riding and another one from the stables, which was saddled up with blankets and supplies. He turned back to the Queen, baffled. “What are you doing?”_

_She looked away, shame staining her proud features. “I cannot expect you to understand, my child. I have to do this. You were not supposed to see this.”_

_Aerin looked again to the buckets of blood, then his mother. He realized that the blood only coated his mother’s hands and forearms, as if she had dunked them into the bucket herself. And the blood that was splattered across the front of her dress… it looked like it had been spilled on accident. Aerin heaved a heavy breath and stumbled back, suddenly dizzy as he realized what was going on._

_“You… you are faking your own death,” he rasped, blinking rapidly as if this were some sort of dream he could wish away. Aerin shook his head. “But why?”_

_“I cannot stay here any longer. I cannot―” The Queen pressed her lips together, face scrunching with some unplaceable emotion._

_She came toward him, hesitantly placing her hands on his shoulders. Barely thirteen, Aerin was almost taller than her now, lanky and awkward and trembling in her arms. She reached out to cup his cheek, and although the tackiness of her palm sent a shudder down his spine, Aerin let her touch linger. He was not sure that she had ever been this tender, this gentle, with him in years._

_“The palace is not my home, sweet boy,” his mother said softly, apologetically. She brushed his hair back from his forehead, just like she used to when he was young. “Neither is Whitetower.”_

_Aerin’s brows drew together. “But you grew up here!”_

_“No, Aerin. I didn’t.” The Queen sighed, forlorn. She gazed into the forest and Aerin wondered what she saw in the distance, if anything at all. “You will understand when you are older. When you see that there is more to this kingdom beyond what lies within a day’s ride of Whitetower.”_

_“So… you’re leaving?” Aerin asked, his voice full of disbelief. “Running away? Where are your ladies-in-waiting? How did you get away?”_

_“They know, Aerin,” she murmured, her hazel eyes searching his face as if she were trying to commit every bit of him to memory. “They are the ones who helped me obtain supplies for my journey. I could not make them complicit in this, so they are hiding somewhere in the woods until it is time.”_

_“Time for what?”_

_His mother did not reply but Aerin read the silent answer in her eyes. Time for the rest of the kingdom to know the Queen was dead._

_“Mother…”_

_“They are sworn to secrecy, Aerin,” she told him, her hand falling from his face and back to his shoulder. “They will not tell a soul the truth about what has transpired here today. And…” Her brows knit together as she squeezed his arm. “And neither must you.”_

_“Mother, I…” Aerin shook his head, at a loss for words. How could he keep this a secret? How could he let the world, his own father and brother, believe that his mother had… had died? How could he live with that secret?_

_“I know it is a lot to ask, my sweet,” the Queen said sympathetically. “The truth is a heavy burden. But you are so strong, Aerin.” Her face screwed up, and for a moment, there was such deep anguish in her expression, Aerin himself wanted to cry. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “So strong. More so than you know. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise. Even your brother.”_

_“Mother, please,” Aerin begged, his throat tightening as tears sprung up, lining his vision. This was her goodbye. “I can’t do this.”_

_“You can and you must,” she insisted, even as her eyes seemed to beg for forgiveness. “I am so sorry you have gotten involved in this. You were never supposed to see any of this.”_

_“So you were going to leave without saying goodbye? During Baldur’s celebration?” Aerin’s words were angry but he only felt shock and pain. “How could you?”_

_“I am not a good mother, Aerin. I never have been. I never pretended to be,” the Queen told him sadly, regretfully. “I should have tried harder, but I cannot be here anymore. I never wanted any of this.”_

_“So you’re leaving? Where?”_

_She shook her head. “I can’t tell you that. There are too many secrets to keep already.”_

_The words were out of Aerin’s mouth before he could stop them. “Then take me with you.”_

_“Aerin_ ― _”_

_“I don’t want to be here either, Mother,” he pleaded, brows bunching up. “I’m like you. It’s miserable here.”_

_The Queen’s expression was agonized. “Aerin…”_

_“Please,” Aerin whispered. “Take me with you.”_

_The Queen glanced between her son and her horse, saddled up and waiting. After a long moment, she nodded. “Alright. But we have to leave now, do you understand? We don’t have time to dally or return to the palace for your belongings.”_

_“Of course.”_

_She straightened, gazing around the forest. “A little more blood and it would be believable that you were killed, too. Help me.”_

_Aerin nodded, wordlessly grabbing one of the buckets of blood and sloshing its contents around, splashing it on the surrounding brush, even as he fought to keep down bile. His mother pressed scarlet handprints into the tree, smearing them for effect. Before long, the gruesome scene around them was complete._

_The Queen took the empty bucket from Aerin’s hands and tied them to her saddlebag. “We’ll dispose of them later. Are you ready?”_

_“Yes.” Aerin joined her, saddling up first before his mother mounted behind them._

_“You are certain that you want to do this?” she asked, reaching around him to grab the reins. “You understand that we will never return to Whitetower? You will never see your father or brother again.”_

_Wordlessly, Aerin nodded, even as his chest tightened._

_There was a beat of silence, then his mother flicked the reins. “Very well.”_

_The horse broke into a gallop, the saddlebags slapping against its flank as they passed through the forest in a blur._

You understand that we will never return to Whitetower?

_Aerin had always wanted to see the kingdom beyond the capital. He could make peace with this parting. He had to._

_Even though he knew he shouldn’t, Aerin glanced back, catching the magnificent towers of the palace in his gaze. His home._

_His heart clenched._

You will never see your father or brother again.

_Good. He would suffer less for it._

_Now, the palace was flying blue banners for Baldur’s celebration, but soon, Aerin knew they would be black. For mourning. He looked down, staring at the dried blood that coated his hands, and thought of the deer he had killed earlier that day._

Ha! Beautiful shot, Aerin!

_He thought of his brother, warmly clapping him on the back._

Father will be proud of you. Just as I am.

_He thought of them mourning, grieving over the loss of a wife, a mother, a son, and a brother. Half of a family, lost in a single day._

_Aerin felt like he could not breathe._

I can’t do this.

_“Stop,” Aerin breathed, clutching at his aching chest. “Stop.”_

_His mother pulled back on the reins, drawing them to a halt. The forest was silent around them, not a single creature or noble hunter in sight. “Aerin?”_

_He looked back at her, and instantly, Aerin saw that she knew. The Queen nodded. “Ah.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Aerin rasped, tears streaming down his face as he slid off the saddle and landed on the ground. “I’m sorry, Mother. I can’t.”_

_She reached down to wipe away his tears, leaving trails of watery blood. “You have nothing to be sorry for, sweet boy.”_

_Aerin could not bring himself to respond. He watched as she pulled her hand away and righted herself, gripping the reins once more. She gazed at him for a long while and Aerin knew with a deep certainty that this was the last time he would ever see her. He opened his mouth, but no words came out._

_The Queen nodded in understanding, her expression somber. Then she faced forward, flicked her reins, and was gone. Aerin watched his mother go until she disappeared among the trees, no more than a phantom on the breeze. Aerin stared at the space he had last seen her for a long while before turning and trudging back the way he came._

_Aerin found his horse where he had left it, then found a creek to wash away the blood that streaked his hands and face. He soaked the edge of his cape in the water and used it to scrub vigorously at his skin until it turned raw. He could not stand the feel of the blood that had caked beneath his fingernails. As the water downstream of him clouded with red, the horror of the last few hours finally caught up with him and he heaved the contents of his stomach up there on the river bank._

_Aerin had just gathered his composure and remounted his horse when he heard the thundering of hooves nearby. Before Aerin could decide whether to investigate or flee to the palace, his father burst into the clearing, surrounded by his Captain and the Royal Guard._

_“Aerin! There you are!” King Arlan exclaimed, nearly collapsing from the back of his horse. “Baldur thought you might have gone back to the palace but no one could find you_ ― _Oh, my boy, thank the gods we found you! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”_

_For a moment, Aerin was caught off guard by the relief and concern that colored his father’s features that he almost forgot to act surprised. He quickly molded his expression into one of bewilderment. “Father? What’s wrong?”_

_“There’s been a horrible accident, my boy,” Arlan replied, distraught. “Your mother_ ― _We found her horse and then_ ― _”_

_He cut himself off, unable to finish his sentence in his overwhelming grief. The Captain of the Guard nodded to his knights and they moved forward, protectively flanking Aerin’s side. “We will have time to explain later, my king,” the Captain said. “But for now, I must get both of you to safety.”_

_Aerin nodded, allowing himself to be shepherded back to the palace. During the entire journey home, Aerin resisted the urge to look back in the direction his mother had fled. He stared down at his spotless hands, unable to dispel the feeling that they would never be cleansed of the blood he had spilled today._

* * *

_That evening, there was no celebration feast after all._

_Aerin sat in a plush chair in the corner of the Great Library with his knees folded to his chest as he blankly stared at the wall. A stack of books sat on the floor beside him, forgotten. He could not stop thinking about the dead doe and her fawn, of the grisly scene he had a hand in fabricating, of his mother riding into the forest, lost to the wilderness._

_He ran his thumbnail beneath his other fingernails. He could still feel the blood that had been caked there, even though it was long gone. The first thing he had done when he returned to his room was change out of his filthy riding clothes. They were fairly clean of blood, but Aerin could not stand to wear them for a second longer. It made his skin crawl._

_Now he sat in clean, nightclothes that spoke only of the finer things in life, nothing like what he had seen today. Made of maroon satin, Aerin could barely stand to look at his own sleeves without feeling ill. He should have changed into something else._

_As the candle that burned in the lantern beside Aerin began to burn low, he sighed, gathered his belongings, and retreated to his rooms. There was no use in lingering around here when he could not bring himself to focus long enough to read. While traversing through the palace halls, Aerin noted that the guard was heavier tonight, although he did not understand why. It had been decided earlier that evening that the Queen had perished in an owlbear attack. Even if that were true, it was not as if that creature was going to come barreling through the halls in search of the rest of the royal family in the middle of the night._

_There was a distinct aura of somberness in the air as Aerin came closer to the wing his family occupied. When he passed his mother’s quarters, he noticed that a tapestry of the deepest black had already been pinned up to cover her door. For mourning._

_Aerin felt as if he might as well have traveled across the entire kingdom before he finally arrived at his quarters, his bones aching with a weariness unlike any he had ever known. As he entered the room, Aerin’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest when his attention fell across the figure sitting in his favorite reading chair by the window._

_“Brother,” Aerin said by way of greeting, startled. The Crown Prince was staring back at him, face blank and expressionless, although his eyes were red and puffy._

_“Where is Mother,” Baldur demanded quietly. It was not a question. Aerin’s blood ran cold as his attention fell to his brother’s lap, where a purple bundle of fabric sat._

_“What is that in your hands?” Aerin asked, closing the door behind him although he did not move any further into the room. When was the last time his older brother had entered his room? Years, probably. When they were still children. Baldur had frequently stuck his head through the doorway, sometimes to order Aerin around, others to invite him into town, even though he always refused._

_“I asked you a question first, little brother,” Baldur replied coldly and Aerin flinched. He had heard his brother’s tone take on a lethal edge many times, but never like this. There was none of that familiar, taunting humor in his voice. Aerin did not know what to make of it. “Where is Mother?”_

_Aerin shook his head, perplexed. “I don’t know what you mean. You heard what I did_ ― _”_

_“Do not lie to me!”_

_Aerin flinched back, his shoulders hitting the door. He flattened his hands against his sides, fingers anxiously working at the edge of his satin tunic. “I’m not lying to you, Baldur.”_

_He held up the bundle of fabric and Aerin’s breath caught in his throat as he realized what it was. His riding cloak. The rest of his soiled clothes sat in a pile by the crackling fireplace. He had meant to burn them when he returned to his rooms but had gotten distracted. As the flickering light of the fire wavered, he realized what Baldur was showing him. The spots were faint, nearly blending in with the dark fabric. Most people would not notice unless they knew to look for them, but Aerin knew what they were. Bloodstains._

_“You think you are so clever,” Baldur sneered, tossing the cloak on the ground between them as he stood and crossed the room. “And sometimes, you are, little brother. I will give you that.”_

_“Baldur, I don’t know what you think has happened.” Aerin tried to use his most calming and diplomatic voice, although his brother’s stony expression did not waver. Before he could say anything else, Baldur crossed the room in swift strides and shoved Aerin back, pinning him to the door._

_“I_ think _that you always know more than you let on,” Baldur snapped, his fists balling into the front of Aerin’s tunic. “So, I am going to ask you one more time, Aerin,” he said softly. “Where is Mother.”_

_“She’s gone,” Aerin whispered, tears welling up in his eyes again. “She’s gone.”_

_They both knew that Aerin did not mean “dead.”_

_Baldur unfurled his fingers and stepped back, face hard and impassive. On instinct, Aerin threw his hands up, bracing himself for his brother’s fists. But tonight, they did not come._

_Baldur simply brushed Aerin aside, opened the door, and left without another word._

_Aerin stared down the corridor his brother had disappeared down for a long while, waiting for the Crown Prince to return in a blazing fury. But when that did not happen, Aerin closed the door softly, knelt on the ground, and cried._

* * *

Aerin drifted in and out of sleep for two days.

In between bouts of consciousness, his dreams and reality swirled together, making it nearly impossible to tell them apart. Aerin figured that anything that featured his family was a dream. Several times, he saw his mother, racing through the woods on a white horse, her long dark hair flowing behind her like a black mourning banner. He called for her, begging her to wait for him, but she never seemed to hear. He also saw his brother, standing beside him and offering advice as Aerin leveled a crossbow at some sort of creature. Sometimes that creature was a pheasant, sometimes it was a doe, and sometimes it was a unicorn. Once, it had even been himself.

Aerin was grateful that those were all dreams.

Aerin could not, however, confidently determine that anything that featured the members of his party was real. He saw Imtura’s face above him, her eyes like bright ores of gold, narrowed with a mixture of anger and tentative concern. He felt her arms, strong and steady beneath him, and sensed his limp body sway steadily in time with her lumbering steps. He smelled pine needles and loamy soil. Snowflakes kissed his cheeks and died on his burning skin. That was probably real. He wondered where they were going.

Once, he saw Mal glaring at him, lips twisted into a furious scowl and eyes full of distrust. Aerin was pretty sure that was real, but then Mal’s head turned into that of a snarling wolf. A dream then, or maybe it was a bit of both.

At one point, Aerin was pretty sure they stopped and made camp. He vaguely remembered scenting woodsmoke before he had been carried into a tent and laid out on a bedroll with surprising gentleness. Aerin thought he might fully wake then, but then Iliana had been by his side―and well, if he was being honest, _everything_ went hazy when she was near. He remembered trying to speak, but his tongue felt sluggish in his mouth. She had simply shushed him then and held a water skin to his lips, encouraging him to drink. It was ice cold, probably melted snow, and it left an odd, bitter taste in his mouth. After that, he had descended into a deep, solid sleep.

* * *

_Aerin was back in his old rooms in the palace._

_It was late into the evening and he was stretched out on his lavish bed with his legs crossed at the ankles, surrounded by blankets made of the finest cotton and the softest wool, reading a book about privateering when a knock had sounded at his door. He paused in his reading, closing the book and lifting his head from the soft downy pillow although he did not get up. It was Baldur, inviting him along on one of his debauched escapades into the slums. Perhaps if Aerin did not answer, the Crown Prince would assume Aerin was asleep and would go away._

_Just when Aerin started to believe that was the case, whoever was out there knocked again, although this time, the sound was accompanied by a voice._

_“Aerin? Are you there?”_

_He sat up straight. Oh, he knew that voice. He always would. Aerin tossed the book aside and went to answer the door, his bare feet near silent on the marble floor._

_“Iliana,” he greeted her, glancing up and down the dark hall for the rest of her companions, but it was just her. She was still dressed in her travel clothes, although she had divested herself of her weapons and satchel. Good. She did not need them here. He wanted her to feel safe._

_“Hi,” she replied, her green eyes roaming over his face before glancing over his shoulder. “Can I come in?”_

_A spike of nervous energy shot through him as he stepped aside. “Of course.”_

_Aerin watched as she breezed by him and wandered into the center of the room. Iliana turned in a slow circle, studying her surroundings with a scrupulous eye. It was odd to see her here, surrounded by all of this palace finery. Odd, but not in a bad way. The only thing he could compare it to was having a single blue galduria in a field of yellow nesperias. Both flowers were beautiful in their own way, but Aerin would always pick the galduria, every single time._

_Iliana strode to the bookcase that stood beside his bed and plucked a puzzle cube off one of the shelves. She turned it over in her hands with a small smile. “This certainly suits you.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_Iliana looked up, raising a brow. “Your room. It’s very… you. I feel like I could get to know what kind of person you are just by looking at it.”_

_Aerin smiled, closing the door behind him before he moved to stand beside her. He took the puzzle cube from her fingers, set it aside, and took her hands. “But you already do know me. Better than most.”_

_“One evening with me and you’ve already bared all your secrets?” she quipped, a teasing edge to her smile._

_Well, not_ all. _Aerin swallowed a pang of regret as he replied, “You make me embarrassingly candid, Iliana.”_

_She squeezed his hands gently. “Embarrassing to you, perhaps, but I like it.”_

_Aerin felt his face warm and he released her hands, perching on the edge of his bed. “What brings you here, if I may ask? Are you having trouble sleeping?”_

_She shrugged, sitting beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “Something like that.”_

_“I could send for a sleeping draught if you’d like,” Aerin offered. There were no attendants on duty in this wing at this time of night so he would have to go down to the palace kitchens, but he didn’t mind in the slightest. “Or perhaps some chamomile tea if you prefer something a little less strong.”_

_Iliana waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, no. That’s alright. I… well, actually, I’m still awake because I want to be.”_

_Aerin arched a brow. “You do?”_

_Iliana brushed her hair behind her ear, drawing his attention to the long, slender curve of her neck. When she spoke again, her eyes were lidded and she stared at him through her lashes, gaze as intense as it was alluring._

_“I do,” she replied huskily, reaching out to lay a single hand atop his shoulder. Immediately, Aerin’s heart began to race. “I was actually waiting in my room, hoping you would come by.”_

_Aerin flushed, the tips of his ears burning. “You were?”_

_Iliana applied the slightest pressure to his shoulder and Aerin went willingly, laying back on his bed as she leaned over him, placing her hands on either side of his head, her long hair cascading like a dark waterfall around them. Her face hovered just above his, so close he could see the lighter flecks of green in her irises, like fireflies amidst the sea of emerald._

_She smiled. “I was.”_

_Aerin swallowed the lump in his throat. “I had no idea.”_

_“I gathered that,” she replied, her fingers reaching out to smooth his curls back from his forehead. They slid into his hair and Aerin nearly sighed from how nice that felt. “That’s why I decided to come to you.”_

_Aerin’s hands settled on her upper back, tentative and wanting. “I’m… glad you did.”_

_“You are?”_

_His fingers swept over the nape of her neck and he reveled in the shiver that rolled down her spine. Iliana lowered herself to her forearms, drawing ever nearer, so that when Aerin spoke, his next words were whispered against her lips. “Yes.”_

_And then she was kissing him and Aerin felt like he was dying over and over again._

_Her mouth was warm, and her lips were soft, and Aerin lost sense of all time and place as he kissed her back. He crawled backward on his bed, lifting his feet off the ground, and she followed, matching his hunger as they righted themselves and fell back against the pillows. Aerin didn’t know what to focus on_ ― _he didn’t even know if he_ could _focus on any single thing. Her lips were as intoxicating as honey wine and her hands were like iron brands, burning her touch into his skin. He never wanted to forget the way she felt, the way she made him feel._

_Iliana pulled back and Aerin rose up on his elbow to chase her but she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, pinning him back against the pillows as her knees framed his hips. Aerin felt his heart leap into his throat as she ducked her head and kissed along his neck, his pulse jumping beneath her mouth._

_He was going to die. She was going to chew him up and spit him out and he was going to die. But he did not mind in the slightest if this was how he was going to go._

_When Iliana’s fingers began to work on the laces that held his doublet together, Aerin froze. “Iliana, wait.”_

_She kissed below his ear. “I want to see you.”_

_Aerin’s chest ached. “No. You don’t.”_

_The Nerada Stone. If she saw… It would ruin everything. Not just his plans with the Dreadlord, but_ them. _She would despise him once she knew the truth, just like the rest of them._

_She pulled back and the sincerity and longing in her eyes made Aerin feel weak. “I do.”_

_He read the silent request in her gaze._ Trust me.

_He did. He shouldn’t but he did. Iliana was different. Perhaps she would understand. She always did. Aerin nodded._

_He was hardly breathing as she undid the laces and kissed her way down his chest, tasting every bit of newly exposed skin. His fingers twisted in the sheets of his bed as she shoved his doublet from his shoulders and laid all of his secrets bare. The Nerada Stone pulsed at the center of his chest, bathing their skin in soft red light. An intertwining network of black veins spiderwebbed outward from the stone._

_It was hideous. Ugly. And Aerin was ashamed of it._

_“It’s a Nerada Stone,” Aerin explained, his voice strained. “It… contains the_ ― _”_

_“I know.” Iliana’s expression was unreadable and for a moment, Aerin thought she might end him then and there, weapons or no._

_But then she leaned forward, pressed her lips to the Stone, and Aerin wanted to weep._

_“I know,” she murmured, sliding her arms beneath his bare back in a warm embrace. “I know. And I don’t care.”_

_As she kissed his neck, he breathed in the scent of her. Pine, starflowers, and mist. She smelled like the wild. Like freedom. That was what she offered him: freedom. His voice was a hoarse croak. “Iliana…”_

_“I would have you, Aerin. However you are. Always.”_

_That stirred something in him. He had heard those words before. Not here. Not… in this reality._

_This was a dream. And that realization ached. Of course it was. Things could never be this simple for him. For them._

_But as Iliana’s lips covered his once more, Aerin found that he did not really care if this was real. It_ felt _real. And safe. And good. And for now, that was enough. Aerin wrapped his arms around her, heart pounding, and lost himself in her touch._

* * *

When Aerin woke, he felt like he was on fire. 

Every inch of him ached as if he had been horribly burned. Even breathing made him groan in pain. It felt as if he had gulped down hot air, smoke and embers stinging the inside of his lungs. He was distantly aware of the sweat that coated his forehead, although it offered no relief from the fever that coursed within him.

Aerin opened his eyes to find the sturdy canvas of a tent stretched taut overhead. Outside, he could hear the wind howling. When he drew in another painful breath, he could smell fresh snow and pine needles.

“Oh. You’re awake.”

That voice… Its owner did not sound very happy about his sudden consciousness.

“Nia,” Aerin croaked, his throat raw and scratchy. The priestess sat near the opening of the tent, her knees folded to her chest, the fur trim of her collar pulled high to shield her from the cold. For the first time, Aerin realized that it was probably freezing, wherever they were. But he only felt this scorching fever.

Wincing, Aerin struggled to push himself up to his elbows, only to find that his movement was restricted. When he looked down, he saw that his hands were bound once again with rope, several coils of it. He tugged his wrists apart to no avail. 

“We all agreed that it would be best to… We thought that would be best,” Nia explained as she stared at the restraints on his wrists. “For everyone’s safety.”

He wondered if “everyone” still included him.

Aerin squeezed his eyes shut as he fell back against the lumpy bedroll he laid on and tried to piece together what had happened before this. He remembered running along the mountain pass from the Vishanti warriors and coming to a rockslide that blocked their escape. He remembered the party coming to terms with their inevitable end and he remembered―His heart jolted in his chest. He remembered Iliana kissing him.

 _Until the stars align for us again,_ she had said softly, her fingers brushing against his cheek. 

Where was she now? Why was Nia here instead of Iliana? There was more that he was missing.

It took a few moments for Aerin to recall what had happened next but when he did, his heart sank. It all made sense now. He remembered drawing upon the Shadow like it was second nature to him. He remembered using the Shadow to destroy the mountain pass, preventing the warriors from reaching them. And he remembered that in the few seconds of clarity he’d had before falling unconscious, using the Shadow had felt _good_ . It had completely thawed the ice that frozen his bones and for the first time in months, he truly felt alive. _Strong._

But now, it felt like he might die for it.

“Do you remember what you did?” Nia asked.

Aerin’s voice was hoarse. “Yes.”

“Are you corrupted?”

Aerin frowned, opening his eyes. He dug his heels into the ground and used his core to drag himself into a sitting position. “I do not believe that I am. I don’t feel…” He shook his head. “I’m in control. I know that.” He peered at Nia, then hesitantly asked, “Do… Do you think I am?”

Nia pursed her lips, her face hard. “No.”

Aerin almost sighed in relief. He certainly did not feel corrupted. He did not even feel powerful. No, every bit of him hurt, and frankly, he doubted he could even stand right now. The Shadow had never made him feel like that before. But it was somewhat a relief to hear that someone else thought he was… safe, he supposed. “How do you know?”

“Well, your skin isn’t gray and you don’t radiate darkness,” Nia commented a bit dryly and Aerin knew that was the result of either Mal or Iliana’s influence. Nia sighed, then looked down at her lap, wringing her fingers a bit anxiously. “While you were unconscious, I did a sort of… inspection on you. To check for traces of the Shadow.”

“You can do that with the Light?” Aerin asked. He had never heard of such a thing.

“I…” Nia glanced away, her expression darkening. “I’m not so sure that it is because of the Light that I can sense the darkness or because I remember what it feels like to use the Shadow.”

“Oh.” Aerin had never thought about that. He’d been unconscious when Nia had overpowered the Dreadlord and used his power against his minions, but he had heard about it from Kade during those long months in the dungeon. “Can you still… use it?”

He had never heard the priestess mention wielding the Shadow. In fact, he had thought that all traces of it had died in this realm when the Dreadlord had. Aerin reminded himself that the Dreadlord did not own the Shadow―he had only shared his affinity for it. And besides, Aerin reckoned that if he could still wield the Shadow, then perhaps Nia could as well.

“I…” Nia scrunched her face up and Aerin saw the internal conflict warring in her brown eyes. When she spoke, her voice was hushed, like she was confessing. “Sometimes, I dream that I can. Those are bad nights. But in reality, I can’t. I’ve tried, just to make sure. I think it’s because it was never my power, just the Dreadlord’s. So the Shadow never really lived in me, not as it lived in you.”

Aerin nodded slowly. He supposed that made sense. He knew that the Light was not wielded in the same way the Shadow was. Whereas Light-users traded bits of their life to draw on the magic that surrounded them, Shadow-users were vessels to their magic and constantly fed it. That was why he had needed a Nerada Stone to keep it contained. The relationship between the Shadow and its master was one of codependence. Aerin had provided the Shadow with a host, a place to live and thrive, and had fed it. As a result, it had made him strong and obeyed his will. He fueled the Shadow and the Shadow fueled him. So when it had been taken from him… 

Even in his burning fever, Aerin could recall the unbearable chill that had wracked his bones for months, the result of his withdrawal. Losing the Shadow had left him weak and aching as his body struggled to acclimate to running on its own.

“Nia,” Aerin began slowly, dreading her answer. “When you did your inspection on me, what did you find?”

“Just dregs,” she answered, her brows knitting together. “But the Shadow is growing. The more you use it…”

Nia trailed off but Aerin did not need her to finish. He knew how that sentence ended. The more he used it, the more it would grow, and the more it grew, the more he would have to give up of himself to sustain it. And if he gave up all of himself, if he gave up his control, then he would be running on pure Shadow. 

He would be corrupted. And this time, there would be nothing left of him to go back to if it was gone.

The day they had escaped from Whitetower, he had awoken whatever remnants of the Shadow that still lived in him, had fed it crumbs of his life, not enough to let it take over, but just enough to stir it to consciousness. And, when he had used it in the mountains, he had let it run free. Now, he was paying for it. Aerin knew with absolute certainty that this fever was a side effect of the Shadow ravaging him, _consuming_ him―taking what it needed to compensate for such a massive expenditure of magic.

Aerin was not aware of how rapidly he was breathing until Nia reached out and awkwardly patted his shoulder. He shook himself out of his thoughts, swallowing hard, and nodded at her gratefully. 

“Do the others know?” Aerin asked hoarsely, even as he wondered specifically, _Does Iliana know?_

“They know you aren’t corrupted,” Nia answered, chewing the corner of her lip. “But I didn’t tell them about the Shadow growing.” She waved her hand in his direction, her gaze lingering on his bound wrists. “Things are already bad enough. We’ve been going back and forth for a long time about what to do with you.”

“I’m not…” Aerin squeezed his eyes shut, trying to gather his thoughts. It was getting hard to think again, the heat and searing pain starting to become unbearable. “I don’t want to hurt any of you. That’s not my intention.”

Nia pressed her lips together. “I’d like to believe that, Aerin. Truly.”

Aerin heard all of the things she did not say. _I’d like to believe that, Aerin, but I don’t know if I can._

He supposed that was fair. 

Before Aerin could respond, another voice cut in through the howling wind outside. Distant, but still close. “Nia? I just got back from hunting. Are you ready to swap out? You’ve got some time to rest up before supper.”

Aerin stiffened. _Iliana._ He hadn’t even had time to wonder what _she_ thought about all of this.

“I’m ready!” Nia called back, getting to her feet. She shot Aerin a look that made him furrow his brows. “I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about.”

Normally, Aerin probably would have blushed at that, but there was something else on his mind. A problem that had risen to the forefront of his mind the moment he first heard Iliana’s voice.

“Nia, wait,” he rasped, his throat still dry and ravaged.

She turned, her hand hovering over the tent flap. “Yes?”

Aerin closed his eyes, taking a moment to steel himself before beginning. “I know I have no right to ask you for anything, especially after everything that I have put you through. And I want you to know that not a day has gone by that I do not regret what I did to you. But I… Our journey is dangerous. And it is only going to get even more so from here. I…” Aerin shook his head, sucking in a sharp breath. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt. So if using the Shadow is what it takes to keep you all safe, I will do it.”

Nia’s face screwed up, lips drawing into a pout as she backed away from the tent’s opening. “But if you do, you will―”

“I know,” Aerin replied, unable to stop himself from wincing. Just thinking about it made his stomach twist itself into knots. “I know. And I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to become…” When he closed his eyes, he saw the Great Hall of the palace again, saw his brother’s lifeless corpse sprawled at his feet, and shuddered, repulsed. “... _that_ again.”

Nia’s brows knit together. “What are you asking for, Aerin?”

“Before it happens―” He swallowed hard, his tongue like sandpaper in his mouth. “― _when_ it happens―because it probably will―I want you to end it.”

Nia’s eyes widened. “Me?”

“Only you know that the Shadow is growing stronger,” he reasoned, heart twisting. He felt awful asking this of her, of making such a terrible request of such a kind and gentle-hearted person. “If the others knew, especially Iliana, they would not want me to use the Shadow. Even to protect them.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t!” Nia exclaimed before glancing over her shoulder, realizing how loud she was. “This is your _life_ Aerin. If you never use the Shadow again, you could still lead a long life. When we get back to Whitetower, I can even try to remove it for you.”

“I cannot do that. Using the Light requires a bit of your life in exchange,” Aerin reasoned. “And yet you still use it, yes? Because the price is worth it. Helping others, protecting the people you love… to you, a few moments of your life is worth it.”

Nia gaped at him. “The Light only takes a few seconds at a time!”

“And even if it was hours, days, even years, you would still do it, wouldn’t you?” Aerin countered. Nia did not reply but her expression said it all. _Of course._

She shook her head and Aerin could see the emotions warring on her face. “Aerin, I can’t―”

“Please,” he begged her. “I know I have no right to ask this of you. But I don’t want to live like that. And I don’t want anyone to waste their time trying to fix it. You and I both know that this time, there will be nothing left. And I don’t want…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t want Iliana to see me like that. To have to be the one to do it.”

When he opened his eyes again, he saw that Nia’s face was uncharacteristically grim, her eyes at once steely, yet understanding. When she nodded, the twist of her lips was almost sad. “Okay,” she decided, her voice soft. “Okay. You have my word, Aerin. Before it happens, I will end it.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.”

Nia nodded and turned to go, but when she reached for the tent flap she paused, her expression troubled.

“You don’t want Iliana to do it, but you would have me do it?” she asked. Her tone was not critical or judgemental or even offended. Just inquisitive.

Aerin’s brow creased. “Don’t you want to? Of everyone here, I have harmed you the most.”

At this, Nia looked perplexed and even a little discomforted as she shook her head. “I’m not… I don’t… Be that as it may, I never wanted to… hurt you back, Aerin. I’m not that kind of person.”

Aerin pressed his lips together. He did not know what to say to that. He only knew that he _was_ that kind of person, the kind that wanted―no, _needed_ ―vengeance, even though he now wished he wasn’t. Perhaps if he had been more like Nia, none of this ever would have happened. 

Instead, he asked, “Will you still do it?”

“Yes. Because I suppose… I suppose I would want the same for me,” she admitted with a shrug. Nia turned, lifted the tent flap, and began to duck outside. “Let’s just… hope it doesn’t come to that.” 

But when Nia glanced back at him over her shoulder, Aerin understood that they both knew it would.


	16. Fine Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A word of advice: tread carefully.

_ Everything was coated in ash.  _

_ Iliana trekked through this corpse of a forest, passing by blackened stumps and ruined brush. Her hands were coated in soot and several layers of dirt and grime were caked beneath her fingernails as if she had clawed her way out of the seven hells, only to find herself in a different sort of nightmare. Charred husks of creatures littered the path she walked on, some smaller than a kromp while others were so big, Iliana mistook a scorched ribcage for a copse of bone-white trees. _

_ This was destruction unlike any Iliana had ever seen before. Whatever forest this was, it was burned beyond recognition. Iliana could not tell if the trees around her were heartoak or spruce or even any kind that grew in Morella. She hoped they weren’t. She hoped that wherever she was, it was far, far away from home.  _

_ As she continued through the forest, Iliana reached out, brushing her fingertips against a singed, fallen tree trunk. The crumbling bark was cold―whatever fire had ravaged this forest had long since been extinguished. Iliana wondered when was the last time a single living creature had passed through these lands, if any even bothered. Nothing but dust and tragedy could be found in all directions as far as the eye could see. _

_ Iliana did not know how long she had been traveling through this desolate forest of death. She could not see the sun through the dense coverage of thick gray clouds that spanned the sky, but the forest had darkened and brightened more times than she could count. She did not rest for she did not feel exhaustion, and she did not eat or drink for she did not feel hunger or thirst. _

_ She had never borne witness to such oppressive silence. There were no creatures burrowing beneath the earth or darting across the ground. There were no birds soaring between the inky treetops or far overhead. Was she even among living anymore? Or was she among dead? Or was this some bleak, wretched place that lay between? _

_ Iliana did not have these answers. All she could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other, driven by some innate urge to keep moving forward, even though she did not know why. She kept going on, and on, and on, and on until― _

_ A bloodcurdling cry shook the earth.  _

_ Iliana clamped her hands over her ears as the sound grated down her spine and a fear unlike any she had ever known seized her heart. She crouched down amongst the ashes, her conscience screaming, to run, to hide, to cry, to do anything it took to live. Although there was no way to tell where that fearsome roar came from, she felt a sharp tug, as someone had tied a string around her spine and yanked, encouraging her to look up. But before she could, the ground gave way beneath her and suddenly Iliana was sinking, sinking into a pit of cold, smothering ash.  _

_ In a matter of seconds, her legs were sucked under, rendered completely immobile. She clawed at the ground, seeking any sort of handhold she could find. A gnarled root, a jagged rock, anything that could stop her from going under. She sliced her palms open on the earth as she scrabbled for purchase, but it was no use. No matter how hard she tried, the world kept pulling her under. _

_ Before long, the ash was up to her waist, then her shoulders, and then she was drowning in it. It stuffed its way into her mouth and nose, stifling her screams.  _

I’m going to die here,  _ were her only thoughts.  _ I’m going to die.

_ And then, it stopped. _

_ She was no longer in the earth, drowning in ash. She was… falling. _

_ Iliana was staring up at the great blue sky as clouds rushed by, her hair snapping in the wind. Any exclamations and expletives were lost to the atmosphere as she streaked towards the earth like a shooting star. She hurtled head over feet, catching glimpses of blue sky and charred earth, blue sky and lush forests, blue sky and sprawling cities. _

_ A shadow passed over her, blotting out the sun, and then over the wailing wind, there was a rustling sound. Something brushed against Iliana’s cheek, gentle and reassuring. It was soft and downy. _

_ Feathers. _

_ She slammed into something―hard. She wheezed, her chest rattling like it was filled with broken glass and rolled over, grabbing for something to hold on to and― _

_ “Holy gods,” she breathed as her fingers grazed a leathery hide. _

_ She was riding the dragon. _

_ She laid flat between its shoulder blades, holding tight to one of the sharp spikes that ran down its long neck from its triangular, horned head. On either side of her stretched enormous wings mottled crimson and black, tipped with a set of massive talons that resembled hands.  _

_ The dragon dove and Iliana’s gasped softly, her heart swooping straight to her stomach. She clung tight, squeezing her eyes shut against the terrifying drop and the harsh wind that brought tears to her eyes. _

Look,  _ a voice whispered in her mind, a voice Iliana had heard before, in dreams like these.  _

_ Iliana’s eyes flew open. The robed figure was nowhere to be seen, but Iliana soon saw that she was no longer soaring through blue skies. She was no longer in the Realm of Light. _

_ Fields of volcanic rock stretched far beneath peppered with jagged outcroppings of obsidian. Rivulets of lava coursed throughout the land like great veins of molten ichor. The sky looked like one massive bruise, shrouded in purplish clouds and smoke that reflected the fiery earth.  _

Look,  _ the voice demanded once more, and Iliana did. Again she felt that tug on her spine, drawing her attention to the horizon. There, a colossal shroud teemed―no, not a shroud. An army. _ The Empire of Ash. The Great Conquerors.

_ Iliana’s blood ran cold. As the dragon carried her closer to the mighty army, she watched rifts appear in the very fabric of existence before the head of the army―portals, not unlike the one she had made in the Dreadlord’s palace back to the Light Realm. But these ones were unstable, frayed at the edges, and they closed as soon as they opened. _

They are trying to find a way through. So far, they have had no success,  _ the voice whispered and Iliana felt something ease slightly. Perhaps she still had time. She heard a cry of alarm go up from the troops, saw the undulating mass shift. Toward her. _

_ Within seconds, little black dots peppered the air, rapidly growing closer. No, not dots. Arrows. Many of them fell short, but those that came into contact with the great beast Iliana rode upon bounced harmlessly off its impenetrable, leathery skin. She felt its skin warm beneath her palms and the air began to ripple around them. In between thick patches of leathery skin, Iliana could see a faint glow. Fire. _

But do not be mistaken, Realm-Walker,  _ the voice chided, just as Iliana’s gaze fell upon a ballista, loaded with a massive arrow made of twisting shadow. _

They are coming.

_ The ballista fired and the arrow of darkness shot through the sky with deadly accuracy. It speared the beast in the chest and Iliana felt its body shudder beneath her, just as a cloud of fire burst free, blazing with the heat of a thousand suns. The dragon cried out in pain and began to nosedive, dark ichor streaming out like a ribbon of death beneath them.  _

_ “No!” Iliana screamed as they hurtled toward the earth. She looked to the side, begging those beautiful wings to move, but they began to disintegrate before her eyes. The membranous leather that made up the wings thinned and blew away like strands of spider silk fluttering on the wind.  _

_ The dragon’s body went cold and lifeless beneath her fingers and Iliana felt something inside her start to crack. That string that had been tied around her core went taut, its golden threads thinning, fraying, and finally, snapping. _

_ Iliana’s body went limp, just as the beast beneath her turned to dust. _

_ And then, she became nothing. _

* * *

_ “No!” _

“Iliana.”

She awoke with a start, immediately pushing herself to her elbows and scrambling backward until her shoulders brushed the edge of her tent. Instinctively, she reached for her sword, unsheathed it, and held it aloft.

“Easy! It’s just me. You’re okay. All is well.”

It took a few moments for Iliana’s vision to clear, to pick apart the shadows of the tent from the midday light that streamed in through the open tent flap, surrounding―

Iliana sighed in relief, her blade falling to the side. “Tyril. It’s you.”

He gave her a concerned look that said,  _ Who else would it be? _

“Nightmare?” he asked softly, starting to duck into the tent when she held up her hand.

“Yes. Well, not exactly.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. When she swallowed, her mouth felt dry. She could have sworn she still tasted ash. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Tyril pursed his lips as if to argue but then nodded, apparently deciding against it. He backed out of the tent’s entrance, still holding up the flap. “As you wish. But we do need to talk about something else.”

Iliana raised a brow, tilting her head. He looked serious. Well, he almost always looked serious, even when he was happy. But today, he looked even more so. “What about?”

“I will tell you in a bit,” he replied, jutting his chin toward her belongings. “Grab your bow. You and I are going hunting. We’ll talk then.”

“No rations tonight?”

“No.” Tyril retreated, letting the flap fall shut behind him although Iliana could still hear his voice through the canvas. “We should arrive at the edge of the poison fields by tomorrow evening. We do not know when is the next time we will be able to find edible food. We have to conserve what we can.”

Iliana nodded. That made sense. “Give me a few moments. I’ll be right out.”

Iliana kicked her blanket aside and crawled over to where her belongings sat. She strapped her bow and quiver to her back, then rifled through her bag for a bruised apple, something to satisfy the gnashing animal that was her hunger until suppertime. From the front pockets of her satchel, Iliana found the pale root she had scavenged two days ago, broke off a rubbery tendril, and used a small mortar and pestle to press out the extract, catching the clear liquid in her water skin. 

As she stowed her belongings away into the pockets of her pack, Iliana’s gaze caught on something sparkling and golden. With a heavy sigh, Iliana drew out Aerin’s signet ring and weighed it in her palm. It was a miracle the damned thing hadn’t fallen out of her clothes in the hell that had followed after their audience with the Khagan. As she turned it over in her fingers, she could not help but think of the man it had once belonged to.

She had kissed him. Back on the mountain pass, when she was certain that their lives were about to come to an end, Iliana had kissed him. The thought of that alone made her chest warm, but the actual memory…

Iliana closed her fist around the ring and rubbed at her temples. The actual memory made her blood sing and her stomach twist, but not in a good way. She could not remember the joy she had felt when Aerin had responded in kind without thinking of what had happened after. He had used the Shadow, had destroyed the mountain pass with it. Iliana had not once considered the possibility that he could still wield it. If he could, then why in the hells did he stay in that cell back in Whitetower if he could just blast his way out? Unless, of course, he did not know that he could wield it. But still, apparently, he knew about it long enough to make the decision to use it to  _ blow up the mountainside. _

And he hadn’t told her.

_ Can I ever trust you? _

Iliana was beginning to think that she could. But now, not so much. Was Aerin even safe for her anymore? Was he ever? He always had his secrets―plenty of them, and to some extent, Iliana understood why he kept them from her. Over the last few days, she had eventually come to accept the truth about the Queen, but the Shadow? That was potentially the worst thing he could have hidden from them. It brought into question why he chose not to disclose that information, if he was hiding his magic for reasons more sinister than keeping the peace.

Iliana looked down at her fist, loosening her fingers just enough to see the circlet of gold gleaming in between. She should probably give it back… It was for the best, given the recent development. It became clear now more than ever that faith and trust would always be the traitorous knife that lay between them.

Yes, it was for the best. For everyone. Things were bad. Tensions between her companions were probably at the highest they had ever been. Mal had wanted to punt Aerin over the edge then and there and she was pretty sure Tyril wanted to bite her head off for bringing Aerin from Whitetower.

_ “Did you know about this?” Tyril had demanded once the initial shock had worn off and the dust had settled, his blue eyes blazing with an icy fury. _

_ “Of course not!” she retorted, subconsciously holding Aerin tighter to her chest as every eye swiveled to her. _

_ “Prince of darkness, he’s been lying to us from the start! He always has been,” Mal spat starting forward. “You know I have your back, kit, but when we broke him out, this wasn’t part of the plan.” _

_ “You think I don’t know that?” Iliana huffed, sending him a sharp look. “And no one is lying. We never… We never asked about this.”  _

_ But even as she spoke, her voice wavered ever so slightly. Iliana did not know who she was trying to convince: the others or herself. _

_ “Lying by omission, then,” Mal scoffed, lifting his chin as his lip curled with disgust. “I spent a lot of time with some real bottom of the barrel scumbags. I always knew he was the scummiest of all. Scoot, kit. Leave him there.” _

_ Iliana scowled. “No.” _

_ “Kit―” _

_ To everyone’s surprise, Imtura stepped in, wedging herself in between Iliana and Mal. She drew herself up to her full, indomitable height _ ― _ a menacing wall of solid muscle.  _ “ _ You take another step, Volari, and I’ll toss you over the edge myself.” _

_ “Me?” he echoed, incredulous. “What did I do? He’s the one that’s been giving us the run around ever since, well, ever!” _

_ “Mal, he saved our lives,” Imtura reasoned, her expression conflicted. “He saved  _ my  _ life.” _

_ “So? You don’t owe him anything,” he retorted angrily. “We’ve saved his ass countless times. He should be lucky we don’t just kill him.” _

_ “For what?” Imtura fired back. “Using that magic to rescue our hides?” _

_ “Not just any magic,” Tyril cut in, his expression cold and dark. “Shadow magic.” _

_ “You too, lordling?” Imtura spat, lips twisting into a scowl as she whirled on him. “You’d have his head for this?” _

_ “No.” Tyril shook his head, his dark hair spilling over his shoulders as he gazed out at the ruination Aerin had left behind. “But I still think he’s dangerous. Too dangerous. We brought him back from the Shadow Realm to face justice and make an example of those who even consider the path of darkness. Not so he could go down that path again.” _

_ “We don’t know that’s what he’s doing,” Imtura argued. _

_ “We don’t know that’s what he’s  _ not _ doing, either,” Mal snapped. “That little bugger’s tricked us all before. This could all be some sort of ploy to get us to trust him again. And I’m not having it.” _

_ “Well, we can’t just leave him,” Imtura stated firmly, folding her arms resolutely. “I don’t care what you say. He saved my life. Whether he’s corrupted or not, I can’t just leave him to die. That doesn’t sit right with me.” _

_ Mal made a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a grunt. “Oh, you orcs and your loyalty―” _

_ “Yes,  _ our loyalty _ ,” Imtura growled, leaning down so that she and Mal were now eye to eye. “Unlike you humans, it has to be earned, not bought. Remind me again, Reaper, what price Nia waved over your head to convince you to help her with the Shards?” _

_ Nia gaped. “Imtura, don’t―” _

_ “I didn’t even get paid!” Mal shouted, throwing up his hands in vexation. “And it stopped being about the money real fast, Immy, you know that―” _

_ “It doesn’t matter! None of that matters anymore,” Nia interrupted, ever the peacekeeper as she waved her hands, palms out. “We’re not leaving him. We aren’t like that, right? Besides, he’s not… he’s not corrupted.” _

_ “Just because he doesn’t look all shadowy that doesn’t mean he isn’t, priestess,” Mal said, rolling his eyes although his voice softened by a fraction, as if even he could not stand to argue with Nia. “He could have another one of those freaky stones welded into him.” _

_ “He doesn’t,” Iliana replied before she could stop herself. _

_ “Yeah?” Mal questioned, turning toward her with his brow raised. “And how would  _ you _ know that, kit?” _

_ Iliana glared at him, the pointed tips of her ears burning. “Don’t even start.” _

_ “I saw what she saw,” Imtura added and Iliana felt a wave of gratitude for the orc captain. “The prince doesn’t have anything on him.” _

_ “How do we know he’s not corrupted then?” Tyril asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked between them all. “How do you know, Nia?” _

_ Iliana looked at Nia, who merely shook her head, her expression unreadable. “I just do. I can’t explain it, but I do. I can sense the Shadow in him, and it’s not enough to corrupt him.” _

_ “It is enough to blow up the mountain, though,” Mal muttered and Imtura grunted. _

_ “Don’t be so dramatic,” she quipped. “It was just a small explosion.” _

_ Mal pointed at the remains of the pass, eyes wide. “You call that a small explosion?” _

_ “Guys,” Iliana cut in, exasperated. “We’re not leaving anyone behind. But we shouldn’t linger here. I doubt the wooly men are going to give up so easily and let us get away. This is their kingdom. I wouldn’t be surprised if they know another way around and are on their way now.” _

_ Tyril huffed, running his fingers through his hair as he nodded. “Iliana’s right,” he stated, although he did not sound very happy about it. “We should get out of here while we can. Clear this rockslide and continue on. We can debate about this later.” _

_ “Is everyone alright with that?” Imtura asked and slowly, everyone nodded. _

_ Threep poked his head out of Nia’s satchel, craning his neck toward Aerin. His whiskers twitched and his eyes narrowed as he wrinkled his nose. “He smells like cinders and smoke.” _

_ Nia pursed her lips, face drawn and pensive as she nodded slowly. Iliana did not know what that meant. She wasn’t entirely sure that she even wanted to find out. _

_ As Tyril ushered Mal toward the rockslide and began to cautiously pick his way across the rubble, Imtura crouched beside Iliana and Aerin. “I’ll swap my bags with you for the prince.” _

_ Iliana looked down at him, her throat tight. He was so pale and his skin was so, so hot. “I think he’s ill or something.” _

_ Imtura nodded, her golden eyes soft with understanding. “I’ll be careful with him, landrat. You have my word.” _

_ Iliana swallowed, carefully studying Imtura’s face although she knew she needn’t worry. Imtura’s word was as good as law, and even if it wasn’t, she would still believe her. _

That _ was trust. _

_ “Alright,” she said softly, brushing back a few stray locks from his forehead, skimming his feverish skin. “Okay.” _

_ Imtura set down her pack before gently picking Aerin up and cradling him in her arms as if he weighed nothing. Iliana gathered her stuff and rose to follow, but not before she took one last look at the destruction they left behind. _

Iliana shook her head, tucking the memory aside as she emerged from her tent. As she did, she slipped the ring back on her thumb. There was no harm in wearing it for now. Right?

“Ready?” Tyril asked from where he leaned against a nearby pine. His gaze flicked up from Iliana’s hands. He had clearly noticed but he said nothing.

“Not yet,” she mumbled as she crossed their campground, nodding to Mal, who flung his knives into a fallen tree from where he sat by the remnants of the campfire, as she went. He merely huffed in response. Still upset then.

_ But wouldn’t you be, too?  _ her conscience whispered snidely and she heard that word again.  _ Compromised. _

Stupid. So stupid.

Iliana pulled back the flap of the tent that stood across from hers and ducked her head in. “How is he?”

Imtura looked up from sharpening her axes and gave a halfhearted shrug. “Still burning up.”

Iliana allowed herself a glance at Aerin, who still lay unconscious on his bedroll, unmoving. His fur-lined leather doublet was discarded, leaving his torso bare and exposing skin that was paler than the face of the moon. Only his face held any color, a crimson blush that spread across his cheeks and up to his temples. His dark hair clung to his sweaty forehead like spilled trails of ink and his breath left his bloodless lips in short pants. It did something strange to Iliana, to see him like this. It made her hurt in ways she didn’t know were possible.

Iliana cleared her throat, suddenly finding it hard to speak. “Is he still… you know. Talking in his sleep?”

She could still hear his hoarse pleas and whimpers of “please,” “wait,” “don’t go,” and, most frequently, “I’m sorry,” over and over again. It was only when she scrounged up some Valerian root and made him a sedative that Aerin seemed to relax. She hoped his nightmares had gone away too.

“No,” Imtura responded, straightening and raising her arms over her head. Iliana could hear Imtura’s joints go  _ pop, pop, pop  _ as she stretched. “Been sleeping like a babe.”

“Good, good,” Iliana murmured before handing over the water skin. “Give this to him if it starts up again. Tyril and I are going hunting. I’ll watch over him when I get back.”

“Nia will probably be here when you return,” Imtura informed her, then tilted her head, brows flattening. “Didn’t you watch him all night?”

“Yes and then I slept all afternoon,” Iliana shrugged, sliding her hands into her fleece-lined pockets. “I’m alright. Seriously.”

Imtura looked at her for a long time, then huffed. “If only some of my own crew members were as dedicated as you. Damned deckswabbers think I don’t know when they take a snooze in the Crow’s Nest.”

Iliana smiled slightly at that. “Well, maybe after all this business is over, I’ll have a little stint as a pirate aboard your ship.”

“Now  _ that’s _ a sight I’d like to see,” Imtura grinned, resting her elbow on her knee. “You handled yourself well enough with the grobtars. But don’t you think you’re gonna want to take a break after all of this? Have some time to breathe?”

Iliana shrugged. “Maybe one day. But I’ve got the rest of my life to breathe. Are  _ you _ going to take a break?”

“Hells no,” Imtura laughed. “I’ll be back on the open seas the moment I get the chance.”

“That’s what I thought,” Iliana smirked, crossing her arms. “Hypocrite.”

“Yeah, yeah, shut your trap, landrat. If you were a part of my crew, I’d have you on head duty for a week for that,” Imtura threatened although her lips were curved into a smile. “Get out of here and bring me back something good to eat. If I have to eat dried rabbit meat again, you lot are going to wish you stayed with the wooly men.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Iliana teased, giving her a mock salute, but when her gaze landed on Aerin once more, her expression fell. She hesitated at the entrance to the tent, wondering if she should stay behind and give Tyril her bow.

“ _ Go _ , Iliana,” Imtura encouraged her, waving her away. “He’s not going anywhere. Nia and I will take care of your prince.”

Iliana choked on a cough in her haste to refute her. “He’s not my prince.”

Imtura grinned, then waved her axe toward the exit. “Sure he ain’t. Now go. I mean it. This tent isn’t made for three people.”

Iliana opened her mouth to respond, then closed it and nodded before leaving. When she emerged back into the open air, Iliana saw that Mal had disappeared, probably off to bug Nia in her tent or go back to sleep. Tyril still leaned against a tree, his eyes closed as he tilted his face toward the sky. 

“Ready?” Iliana asked him as she approached. He looked so peaceful, Iliana regretted disturbing him. She had no idea when was the next time they would find moments of respite such as this, especially if there was a war on the horizon. Iliana shuddered, recalling her frightening dream.  _ They’re coming. _

Tyril opened his eyes and straightened. “I think I aged several decades in the time it took for you to be done.”

“Several decades?” Iliana echoed with mock astonishment as she reached out and touched his forehead. “And not a wrinkle in sight! My, what is your secret?”

“Same as yours,” he replied smoothly, batting her hand away as they left the clearing they made camp in and delved into the surrounding forest. “I’m an elf.”

“You are just killing it with the jokes today, Tyril,” Iliana noted, nudging him in the side. He rolled his eyes but nudged her back, his lip quirking ever so slightly.

“Compared to other elves in Undermount,” he said as he led the way, “my sense of humor is unparalleled.”

“That’s not saying much,” Iliana remarked, remembering how aloof most of the Undermount elves had been. As she glanced over at Tyril, Iliana noticed that he had divested himself of his usual swords and carried only a long hunting knife sheathed at his side. “What are you going to do with that? Sneak up on animals and catch them with your bare hands?”

“No. While you were sleeping, I set some traps. We’re going to check them,” he told her, just as they passed a pile of stones that was stacked too perfectly to be natural. A marker. 

“If we’re just checking traps, then why am I here?”

“You can shoot at anything we see along the way,” Tyril said with a shrug as he glanced at her sidelong. “And as I said earlier, there are things we must discuss.”

Iliana had a pretty good idea of what things Tyril wanted to discuss. “Of course.”

Before long, they came upon the first snare, which had successfully caught a prize. As Iliana scanned the treeline for any other prey, Tyril set to work dealing with the captured creature, speaking all the while. 

“As you know from the history of our ancestors, using Shadow magic is a slippery slope,” Tyril began slowly and deliberately. He looked up, looking her straight in the eye so that no meaning was lost as he continued, “I need you to be prepared for any and all possibilities.”

Iliana clenched her jaw, a flicker of discomfort licking down her spine. “And by ‘any and all possibilities,’ you mean if Aerin turns out to be corrupted.”

“That, among other things,” Tyril said lightly as he placed their game into a threadbare sack.

“Such as?”

“What we have to do if he is,” he replied, standing up straight and waving for Iliana to follow him further into the forest. 

Iliana’s brows lowered. “He’s not. Nia said he’s not.”

“We’ve been fooled before. By Aerin.” His expression darkened to something cold and cruel. “By Xenia, wearing Kaya’s skin.”

“This is different,” she protested. It _ had _ to be. “There’s no motive, no reason to betray us.”

“No reason that we know of,” Tyril corrected and Iliana suppressed a groan. She knew Tyril was right, that it was best to be cautious. But she still could not accept the idea that Aerin could possibly want to do them any harm. He had saved them countless times from the Khagan and her people: when they were first captured, when they had their audience with the unpredictable ruler, when they had been ambushed, and of course, when they had been cornered on the mountain pass. But Mal had expressed a valid concern: what if this truly was all a ruse so Aerin could gain their trust and blindside them later?

_ It wasn’t all a lie, then? _

_ No. You were… an unexpected surprise, Iliana. A good one. I was just too far gone. But… it was real. Or at least I had wanted it to be. _

Iliana did not know what to believe.

“Do you trust him, Iliana?” Tyril asked so suddenly, her footsteps faltered.

“What?”

Tyril stopped in his tracks to look back at her, his expression cool and unfaltering. “I said, ‘Do you trust him?’”

“I don’t…” Iliana blinked, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Did she? She wanted to. Did that count or did that only damn her further? She shook her head, offering up her empty palms helplessly. “I don’t know.”

Tyril stared at her for a long time, his lips pressed into a grim line, and Iliana had the sinking feeling that somehow, she had failed―failed him, their friends, and Aerin in one fell swoop.

“I think we have our answer, then,” Tyril said softly as he continued walking once more. “So we have to be careful. We cannot afford to rule out any possibilities. If we are going to face the Empire of Ash, we cannot be weakened from within. So that means whatever is going on between the two of you… you must tread carefully.”

Iliana’s gaze dropped to the forest floor as she nodded. “You’re right.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Tyril murmured, just loud enough for Iliana to hear. “I want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy.”

Iliana did not know what to say to that. She thought of Aerin, then Kade, the Old Gods, and the Empire of Ash. She was not entirely sure where happiness fit in between all of that. So instead, she stayed quiet and focused on hunting. That, she could do.

* * *

By the time Tyril and Iliana lumbered back into their campsite, arms laden with their quarry and firewood, dusk was creeping in, mottling the sky pink, purple, and deep blue. Imtura was nowhere to be seen, but her snores were audible from the tent Iliana had slept in. Mal was sitting by the remnants of the fire again, flinging his knives into a fallen tree.

“Nia?” Iliana called as she crossed toward Mal. “I just got back from hunting. Are you ready to switch out? You’ve got some time to rest up before supper.”

Nia’s voice rose from the same tent Iliana had visited Imtura and Aerin in earlier. “I’m ready!”

Tyril met her gaze and a silent understanding passed between them.  _ Tread carefully. _

Iliana clenched her jaw but nodded. He was right. 

Iliana dropped the bag of game at Mal’s feet and straightened, putting her hands on her hips as she arched her back, feeling her joints pop in sweet relief. Mal flung another one of his knives― _ thunk! _ ―then looked up at her with a single brow raised.

“Can I help you?”

Iliana gave him a saccharine smile that they both knew was cloying. “Would you mind helping Tyril skin and clean?”

Mal let out a heavy sigh, then ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Must I?”

“You don’t  _ have _ to,” Iliana shrugged, flexing her fingers to work some feeling back into them. “I was going to relieve Nia from watching Aerin, but if you want to swap jobs, that’s fine with me.”

Mal scowled, then snatched the bag from the ground. “No, thank you. I’ll stick with the dead animals.”

Behind her, Iliana heard Tyril snort as he dumped the fresh wood and kindling he had gathered into the firepit. There was a burst of heat as his magic ignited a roaring campfire. “Put those fancy knives to good use.”

“That’s  _ not _ what these are for, elf boy.”

“A knife is a knife.”

Mal muttered something unkind under his breath and Iliana smiled. She squeezed his shoulder as she walked by and said in a melodious tone, “ _ Thank you, _ Mal.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, patting her wrist until she released him.

Iliana approached Aerin’s tent just as Nia emerged, her face a little pale. “Hi, Iliana. Sleep well?”

There was a nervous edge to Nia’s voice that made Iliana’s brows furrow. She reached out to grab the priestess’s hand as she passed. “Just fine. Are  _ you  _ alright?”

Nia stiffened, her brown eyes flicking from Iliana’s to her tent and back. “Of course! Just a little tired, that’s all. I don’t sleep well in cold temperatures.”

Iliana nodded slowly, not quite believing the priestess but seeing no reason to pry any further. She glanced northward. “We should be out of Vishanti soon. Hopefully, it will be warmer in the lowlands. In the meantime, try to get some rest.”

“I will,” Nia promised, clasping Iliana’s hand briefly before sliding her hands free. “See you at supper.”

“See you.” 

Iliana looked after Nia until the priestess retreated into her own tent, then took a deep breath and ducked into Aerin’s. She startled when she came face to face with the prince, her eyes staring straight into his hazel ones. 

“You’re awake!” she blurted, stating the obvious. Aerin sat upon his bedroll, his bare arms resting upon his knees. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and his skin gleamed with a sickly sheen. Iliana watched a bead of sweat roll down the center of his chest, right over the twisted cluster of scar tissue, then dragged her gaze back up to meet his before it could drop any lower. She swallowed hard and sat in front of him, crossing her legs beneath her as she unslung her bow and quiver and set them aside. “Are… you well?”

Aerin offered her a wry grin as he wiped at his forehead with the backs of his bound hands. “Do I not look well?”

Iliana’s gaze lingered on the rope that tied his wrists together. She wanted to remove it but keeping Aerin restrained had been the terms the party had established for individual watch rotations, at least for the time being.

“Iliana?” Aerin prompted when she did not respond. She looked up as his eyes dropped to his hands and dimmed with solemn understanding. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “They’re not so bad. I don’t mind them.”

Iliana doubted that. She recalled the last time he had been restrained like this, back in Nia’s home in Whitetower. He had been bitter and irritated then, and Iliana had removed the rope without a second thought. But now… 

Iliana swallowed the lump in her throat as she twisted the ring on her thumb, hyper-aware of its weight. “You understand, then? Why we’re being careful?”

“Nia told me,” he replied, dipping his chin once. 

Iliana let out a long breath between her teeth. “Good.”

Aerin’s brows creased. Iliana watched his gaze fall to the space that separated them. It was slight, as much as the small tent could allow, but the distance might as well have been large enough to span a canyon.

Iliana held her breath as he leaned forward and curled his fingers around one of her hands, gently tugging until she sighed and allowed herself to be drawn in. Iliana shifted her body so that she sat next to his folded legs and he sat next to hers as they faced each other. She could feel the warmth of his bare skin against her leg, still hot enough to permeate the layer of thick wool, but no longer burning as hot as it once had.

“How are you feeling?” she questioned, brushing the back of his knuckles as she pulled her hand from his.

“Truthfully?” Aerin asked, tilting his head.

“Truthfully.”

“I’m starving,” Aerin admitted, rolling onto his back with a huff. “How long was I unconscious for? Where are we?”

Iliana smiled as she leaned back on one hand and gazed down at the Valleros prince. Looking at him now, Iliana saw that there was nothing terrifying or sinister about him. He was just a boy, not a threat.

But she had thought that before too.

Her smile fell. Iliana cleared her throat. “Two days. And we’re still in the mountains of Vishanti. But we put some distance between us and the Khagan’s fortress. Imtura carried you. We should be reaching the edge of the poison fields in a day or so. We were hoping you might wake up before then. You know. So we don’t all get ourselves killed by breathing the wrong air.”

“Two days,” Aerin echoed, his brows lifting as he made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. “This must have been how you felt after helping me escape from the palace.”

“Disoriented?”

“Dreadful.”

Iliana huffed a laugh, unable to stop herself, and Aerin’s eyes seemed to brighten at the sound. Iliana’s stomach flipped at the sight. “Tyril and I just went hunting, so you’ll get your fill soon.”

“I heard,” Aerin hummed, his gaze roaming almost lazily across her face. “Are you well?”

His attention dropped to her shoulder, the one that had been grazed by a crossbow bolt. Iliana had healed the wound with her Light the night they escaped but her clothing was still torn. Unfortunately, a needle and thread had not been among the things she packed for their journey. Iliana supposed she could whittle a needle out of bone, but mending her clothes seemed to be more trouble than it was worth.

“I’m okay,” she shrugged. “We’re all tired but we’re taking today to rest. This campground is relatively hard to spot. I don’t know if you’ve glanced outside yet, but our campsite sits in the shadow of the mountaintop and there’s an overlook close by that allows us to spot any approaching wooly men. Threep also scouts the area every few hours, just in case, so…” Iliana trailed off, the tips of her ears burning. “I’m rambling.”

Aerin’s knuckles absently brushed her elbow. “I don’t mind.”

The air between them suddenly shifted. Iliana felt her muscles tense, all of her attention zeroing in on his slight touch, the lowered timbre of his voice. Iliana felt giddy and anxious all at once. For a moment, she was back in the Khagan’s dining hall, curled up with Aerin on that bench in the corner of the room, wine coursing through her veins and thoughts spinning around her cloudy head.

“Aerin…”

His fingers hooked into the front of her leather coat and pulled, drawing her over him. Iliana’s knees framed his thighs and on instinct, she planted her hands above his head, carefully holding herself above him.

“What are you doing?” Iliana’s heart was racing. Everything about this situation put her in charge―Aerin’s bound hands, his supine position, and the close proximity of her weapons―but Iliana still felt wildly out of control.

“On the mountain pass. You kissed me,” he breathed and Iliana felt her heart slam into her ribcage.

She said the first thing that came to mind. “I’m sorry.”

Aerin’s brows shot up, then knit together in confusion. He shook his head, lips curling into a private smile, reserved only for her. “You needn’t be.”

He untangled his fingers from the front of her clothing, then reached up as if to skim her cheek when Iliana grabbed his hands and pulled them away, pinning them down over his head. She heard Aerin inhale sharply, then saw his pupils dilate, the darkness swallowing up the hazel. The color in his cheeks darkened with something other than his fever. Immediately, Iliana pulled her touch away but Aerin left his hands where they lay, evidently content.

Aerin’s gaze did not waver from hers as he murmured, “If you so pleased, you could do it again.”

Iliana was all too aware of that fact. For a moment, she gave in to the pounding in her chest and let her body act before her mind could catch up. She dropped her head into the crook between his neck and shoulder, inhaling shakily. Beneath the briny tang of sweat, Iliana could still smell the soap from the Khagan’s fortress. She tried to let it anchor her but she still felt as if she were precariously close to spinning out of control.

All of the fear and worry she had felt over the last few days was starting to catch up with her. When Aerin had collapsed unconscious and  _ stayed _ unconscious, Iliana had been terrified. But now, he was awake, and breathing, and most importantly, okay―the knowledge of that made her almost dizzy with relief.

Maybe Aerin could never be someone she completely trusted, and maybe, at worse, he was still her enemy. But for one intoxicating moment, she simply reveled in his safety, in his close proximity, in his comforting warmth. 

“Iliana…”

Aerin’s voice was a low rasp, a plea and a prayer. She could feel the tremor of his voice in his throat and startled slightly. She hadn’t even realized she was grazing her lips along the side of his neck until he shuddered beneath her.

Iliana drew back to look at him and― _ oh, _ she wished she hadn’t. Nothing could have prepared her for the bewitching sight that greeted her. Aerin’s eyes were half-lidded, his dark lashes fanning across the tops of his rosy cheeks. Even his lips had regained some of their color―his bottom lip was a dark red, although that might have had something to do with the fact that he looked as if he was about to chew through it. Iliana wanted to take it between her own, to kiss it, to bite it.

Aerin made a weak, helpless sound at the back of his throat as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. He arched his neck, tilting his face toward hers, a supplicant begging for more than just her affection. Iliana’s fingers curled into his bedroll, every muscle in her body locked tight as she stoutly held herself over him. But her restraint was waning and his lips were so inviting.

This was too much.  _ Tread carefully,  _ Tyril had cautioned her. Well, this was probably as far from careful as Iliana could possibly get.

She knew what it would feel like to kiss him, to feel him kiss her. Back in the Khagan’s fortress, he had pulled away, had thrown up that wall. But here he was now, pliant and wanting beneath her.

_ You’re dangerous,  _ Iliana thought drunkenly as her gaze wandered across his countenance, and she wasn’t just thinking about his Shadow magic. No, she was thinking about the way he made her feel, the way her heart yearned toward his, the way he managed to strip her down and leave her vulnerable, with a few simple words.

Oh, she wanted to kiss him. But the intensity with which she wanted to was precisely why she couldn’t. 

Iliana drew back, pushing herself up to her knees, and crawled off of him, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.  _ You’re a fool, Iliana. A damned fool. _

Aerin blinked, confounded, then shoved himself up to his elbows. “Iliana? Did I do something wrong?”

“No. Of course not.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “Aerin, what happened on the mountain pass… It’s probably best if we forget what happened. It was stupid and reckless and foolish of me. And we have so many other things to worry about and―”

“What if I don’t want to forget it?”

“What if you… What?” Iliana spluttered, her eyes fluttering open as she turned her incredulous gaze upon Aerin, who looked completely serious.

“What if I don’t want to forget it?” he repeated, shifting so that he was on his knees before her, mirroring her stance. “That you… that we…”

_ Gods, he can’t even say it,  _ Iliana thought. But then again, she did not think that she could either. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m asking you to.”

“Why?”

_ Because I don’t trust you. Because I can’t trust you. Because maybe I do trust you and that’s even worse. Because you’ve burned me before and I can’t take that risk again.  _ There were so many reasons and Iliana could not bring herself to admit to any of them, so instead, she simply offered, “Because.”

Aerin lowered his brows, dissatisfied with that. “Did you mean what you said? That you would… have me?”

Iliana felt her chest cave in. “Of course I did.”

“But you won’t now,” he said flatly. “Then but not now.”

“It’s not like that―”

“Do you regret saying it?”

Her answer was easy. “No.”

“Then why are you asking me to forget it?” he demanded, his eyes feverishly bright.

Iliana sighed, exasperated. “ _ Because,  _ Aerin.”

He scowled and Iliana briefly wondered if he had ever turned that expression on her ever since this journey started. “ _ ‘Because’  _ isn’t an answer.”

Iliana narrowed her eyes in frustration. “Aerin.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Iliana echoed, her voice sharpening. “Why didn’t you tell me about the Shadow?”

“What―” Aerin caught himself, reining his words in before they could spill out. He straightened, schooling his face into something unreadable. “Because I knew that if you knew, you would look at me exactly the way you are now.”

“And how is that Aerin?” Iliana snapped, rolling her eyes.

“Like you’re angry with me,” he replied bitterly. “Like you’re afraid of me.”

Iliana did not have Aerin’s restraint nor his careful composure and the words slipped out before she could stop them. “Shouldn’t I be?”

At this, Aerin’s gaze shuttered, his flat expression locking into place. He sat back although his posture remained rigid. When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral although it still managed to sting. “I suppose you should.”

Iliana’s face fell as she realized what she said, as she watched him withdraw from her. She reached for him but he leaned away. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I think I know exactly what you mean, Iliana,” Aerin snapped, his voice so dry and cold, she flinched. She had never heard him use that tone before, especially with her.

“It’s best for everyone,” she said softly, although she knew her explanation fell flat. “Tensions are high after, well, everything that happened. I think you know why. The others still remember what happened before―they always will. But we all need to stay focused. Kade’s still out there. And if we want to even stand a chance against the Empire of Ash, we need to find the Old Gods.”

Aerin nodded stiffly. “You’re right.”

Iliana opened her mouth to say more, then decided against it, dropping her gaze to her lap where her hands sat uselessly. Her attention caught on his signet ring, still gleaming on her thumb.  _ I should give it back. _

But when moved to pull the ring off, Iliana found that she could not bring herself to do it. She curled her fingers into her palm, hiding it from sight but protecting it all the while. When she looked up, she saw that Aerin was watching her carefully. She knew that he had seen.

Iliana opened her mouth to say something―she didn’t know what exactly―but before she could, Mal’s voice cut through the air. “Meat’s roasting, kit. Come get your fill!”

Iliana’s gaze flicked from the tent flap to Aerin, who simply stared at her, waiting for her to either stay and finish their conversation, even if there was not much else left to say, or go. Somehow, that small decision felt like making a much bigger choice―did she stand with Aerin or her friends?

There had to be some sort of middle ground. If there wasn’t, Iliana would create it herself.

“Come on, princeling,” she said, getting to her feet. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

* * *

The next evening, the party reached the northeastern border of Vishanti.

They stood on a wind-blasted ledge that overlooked the swooping valley that lay between the mountains. The land was greener down there, less exposed to the harsh elements. There were splotches of color, vibrant purples, yellows, and blues―wildflowers. A sparkling river coursed through the valley, bringing life to the surrounding earth. And at the mouth of the valley, stretched the poison fields.

“It doesn’t look very poisonous,” Imtura nodded, putting her hands on her hips and tilting her head, as if looking at the fields from a different angle might reveal the deadly spores that drifted through the air.

“How the hells are we gonna find your brother in all of that, kit?” Mal wondered aloud, settling his hands on his hips.

“And how are we going to survive passing through?” Tyril asked, folding his arms, his gaze assessing. “Who knows how long the fields stretch on before we reach Rysoth.”

“If it’s even out there,” Imtura added.

“Would have been a lot easier if we still had those drakes,” Mal muttered and Tyril nodded in agreement.

“Maybe we should turn back,” Tyril suggested. “The drakes are intelligent creatures. Without us, they will return to Undermount. We can go back and retrieve them, then fly over the fields.”

“And go back through Vishanti?” Imtura asked, incredulous. “Did you forget that there are hordes of wooly men who want to kill us for swindling their queen?”

Tyril bristled. “Of course I didn’t forget―”

“It doesn’t matter,” Iliana interrupted. She had been silent while they conversed, face drawn. “That would take too much time. Time we don’t have.”

“Having the drakes would make it easier to search for―”

“This isn’t just about my brother anymore,” she said quietly, her shoulders rigid. “We need to find the Old Gods. I had that dream again, and I…” Iliana shook her head, at a loss. She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath through her nose to compose herself. “Danger is coming and we don’t have a lot of time to prepare. I don’t know how to explain how I know but I do. But we have to find those gods as soon as possible.” Iliana wrapped her arms around herself, posture diminutive. “Gods, I sound crazy, don’t I?”

_ No,  _ Aerin thought.  _ I believe you. So do they. _

“No, of course not.”

“Yes.”

_ “Mal.” _

“Only because the topic is crazy!” he rectified after Imtura slugged him in the shoulder and Nia yanked on his sleeve. “Not because _you’re_ crazy. I believe you. We all do.”

Iliana frowned. “...Thanks.” 

Aerin felt Iliana’s gaze shift to him although he did not dare to face her as he continued to study the view with a pensive expression. He did not know how exactly he felt after his conversation―argument?―with Iliana yesterday. He was still… not mad, per se. Or even upset. He only knew that something in him ached and this pain had nothing to do with his dying fever. 

Truthfully, he understood what Iliana was saying, where she was coming from, and why she did what she did. From a strictly strategic and practical point of view, Aerin imagined he might do the same thing if he were in her shoes. But that was the thing. It was hard for him to think only strategically and practically―damn near impossible, actually, now that his foolish heart was involved.

At least his hands were no longer tied now that everyone could watch him at once. He had been allowed to keep Iliana’s old sword because frankly, they all knew that if he was going to be a threat, his swordsman skills were not their greatest worry. 

“Aerin,” Iliana addressed him, her voice devoid of inflection. “How do we approach this?”

He did not look at her as he replied, pointing toward the river that wound through the fields like a sparkling ribbon of lapis lazuli. He did his best to recall all of the information he had read in the Great Library about the lands beyond Morella, specifically the poison fields. “We use our extra layers to cover our mouths and hands, then travel along the river. The spores are so diluted in water, the river will be relatively harmless, so we can use it to wash up before touching any food―which we must store carefully.”

“Is it safe to eat?” Nia asked. “If it’s deadly to even breathe in the spores in the air, how will we eat or drink?

“Eating and drinking will never be completely safe,” Aerin replied bluntly. “Which is why we should refrain from doing so unless necessary. But if we limit exposure of food to the outside air and eat or drink beneath the cloth we used to cover our mouths, we reduce the likelihood of breathing in a lethal amount of spores.”

“Can we drink the water from the river?” Iliana questioned, her eyes narrowed as they traced the path the river took. 

“I wouldn’t recommend it. Some sections of the river may be more concentrated than the other, but if we have no other choice?” Aerin shrugged. “Then we have no other choice. Small volumes of heavily contaminated water shouldn’t kill us―the spores are more potent and deadly when inhaled than ingested―but it would at the very least make us very ill.”

“So basically,” Mal drawled, folding his arms across his chest. “Just try not to eat or drink or do anything that exposes our mouth and nose unless absolutely necessary, and we’ll be dandy.”

“Essentially,” Aerin confirmed, finally glancing away to note the grave expressions of his companions. For a bunch of people that didn’t trust him, they certainly listened to him now. Aerin didn’t know whether that made him feel smug or frustrated or if he felt nothing about that at all. 

“Very well,” Tyril said after a few moments passed and everyone had time to digest this new information. “Tonight, we’ll make camp by the river in the valley. Store up on fresh water, rest, and prepare. Tomorrow, we move into the fields.”

Aerin nodded, his face grim. “Tomorrow, we go.”


	17. Tempered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tempers rise in the poison fields.

Aerin thought that their chances of surviving the poison fields were as high as could be expected, given their circumstances. 

They had cut up the wool undershirts the Khagan’s people had given them and tied the strips around the lower halves of their faces to conceal their noses and mouths. The material was thick and supple, impermeable to the spores that floated through the air. Tyril’s snares provided them with plenty of meat that he had dried and carefully stored away. Iliana’s clever fingers had whittled a small needle out of bone and, with Nia’s help, had used any spare panels of leather to fashion a few extra bags to carry clean water. It added more weight to their packs, but it was better than risking a drink from the river as it ran through the fields. 

All things considered, the party was well prepared.

They were not, however, prepared for how badly the poison would sting their skin.

The spores lazily floated through the air like specks of pollen and dust, drifting on invisible currents. Not long after the party left the safety of the valley that lay between the last mountains of Vishanti and crossed into the poison fields, every bit of skin that was left exposed to the spores smarted. Angry red splotches marred their skin and occasionally, a few blisters arose. Even their eyes became irritated, inciting tears in an attempt to clear the source.

It was bad, to say the least. Aerin was not sure which felt worse: his fever, which was slowly abating, or these excruciating rashes.

As night fell on their first day in the fields, the burning sensation faded to an unpleasant albeit bearable tingle. By the end of the second, Aerin’s vision cleared and his eyes no longer watered constantly. Slowly,  _ painfully _ , their bodies acclimated to the deadly environment around them. By mid-afternoon on the third day, the blisters and boils burst, ushering in a brief but sweet relief.

However, this small victory of becoming accustomed to the poison did little to boost the group’s morale. Aerin’s face was set in a constant grimace, his already dark mood made even worse by these less than ideal conditions and the heavy silence that plagued the party. No one felt particularly inclined to speak as they trudged along the river, passing dense grass and colorful flora that Aerin might have once considered to be rather captivating if it weren’t for the fact that they were the cause of so much misery.

As the third day wore on, Aerin realized that the worst thing about this unusual silence was how loud it made the rest of his thoughts. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop thinking about the Shadow that stirred within him, slowly feeding on him, replacing his life with its own arcane magic. He swore he could feel the Shadow chipping away pieces of his real self. 

It wasn’t the dramatic, soul-sucking, and violent experience he thought this growing corruption might feel like. No, it was subtle. Gradual. It started with his mood. Somehow, his mood  _ felt _ heavy, intangible thing that it was. It weighed down on his shoulders like a burden he could not shake, and if he was not careful, he would sink into the earth beneath its force or break. 

Aerin also found that he was irritated more easily. He had nearly hurled himself at Mal when the thief had kicked the underside of Aerin’s heel and hindered his step when Imtura flicked Mal’s ear in retribution. He had  _ nearly  _ even snapped at Nia― _ Nia, _ of all people―for sneaking Threep a few extra rations.  _ Gluttonous creature. _

Aerin had a feeling the only reason he was able to notice any of this was because he was anxiously waiting for the shoe to drop, constantly searching inward for the marker that would tell him he had finally gone over the edge, even though he knew there was no such thing. Could the corrupted really tell that they were corrupted? He certainly hadn’t been able to. He had always thought he was doing what was right, in the only way he knew how to―by using his cunning mind and the gifts the Dreadlord had given him.

All of this put Aerin’s earlier years into a new perspective. Did he despise his father’s galas or soirees because it was just in his nature to prefer solitude over grand, heavily-populated events, or was it because the Shadow had made finding joy in anything nearly impossible? Looking back, Aerin realized that he had probably felt more joy in the last few days than he had in years. He wished now that he hadn’t taken it for granted.

The realization that something was actively deconstructing him while he could do nothing about it made him feel unreal, intangible, temporary. It was part of the reason Aerin had taken that leap of faith the other day and reached for Iliana, had beckoned her close, had wanted her near. He didn’t have a plan or even any expectations. He just wanted her to make him feel real again. For a moment, she had.

Aerin’s gaze strayed to Iliana, who walked ahead of him, her hair braided back into one long plait that swayed with her every step. Tyril kept pace beside her, the two of them deep in some conversation he didn’t care to hear.  _ It is always those two. _

Aerin looked away, fixing his sight upon the river that flowed with them. He didn’t want to think about her right now. 

Three days had passed without so much as a few words passing between them, although it wasn’t for a lack of trying. Conversation between them died out quickly, whether it was because they were both exhausted or they simply did not know what to say anymore, Aerin wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a bit of both.

“You thinking about jumping in?” Imtura asked as she dropped back to walk beside him, her voice muffled through the layer of fabric that covered her mouth. Her eyes were bright as they studied him. “You’re staring at that river pretty hard.”

Aerin shook his head and forced out a huffed laugh, not because he felt the urge to but because he knew it was the proper response. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

Unbidden, Aerin’s thoughts turned sharp and bitter.  _ Why do you care?  _ He gritted his teeth, curbing the impulse to snap at her. Although he still did not quite understand why exactly Imtura was being kind to him, he knew her intentions were good. Aerin gazed at the river thoughtfully, trying to come up with something else to say because he absolutely refused to admit that he was just thinking about Iliana.

“Have you heard of mithridatism?” he asked, turning away from the river to gauge Imtura’s expression, which, as expected, showed no indication of understanding. “That’s alright. Most people haven’t.”

“You’re speaking grobtar, prince,” Imtura replied, her brows knitting together. “But tell me about it.”

“The main principle behind mithridatism is that you ingest some sort of toxin orally or through inoculations―small quantities, of course―over time to build up a tolerance,” he explained, recalling the practice, which he had learned about while perusing one of his ancestor’s journals. “Some of the more, ah, paranoid rulers of my line would do this, especially if they were suspicious of their closest advisors. That way, if an attempt was ever made on their life via poison, they would survive.”

“That’s…” Aerin half-expected her to say “sad _ ” _ because in a way it was. A lack of trust within a ruler’s inner circle was always something to be pitied and it was unfortunately very common. But that was just the way of the court. But instead, Imtura said, “Clever. That’s actually clever.”

Aerin raised a brow. “You think so?”

Imtura shrugged. “Yeah. It’s not something  _ I _ would do. I trust the people I lead and if I can’t, well, maybe that’s on me.” Her expression darkened slightly. “Sounds like something my mother might do, though.”

That was unexpected information. “Really? Your mother would feel the need to do such a thing?”

From what Aerin knew of the Queen of Flotilla, Ventra Tal Kaelen was a fearsome leader, respected by all twelve orcish Clans. The accounts he had read stated that she won their allegiance by passing each Clans leadership test, which practically guaranteed loyalty. He had never heard any rumors of discontent among Ventra’s followers. In fact, Imtura was the first and only person he had ever heard speak about the orc queen with any smidgeon of distaste, although Aerin had just assumed that was a family issue.

Imtura tilted her head. “You trying to get me to spill all of my secrets to the enemy?”

Aerin bristled.  _ Enemy?  _ But then Imtura clapped him on the shoulder so he knew she was joking.

“It’s no secret on the seas that not everyone likes my mother,” Imtura continued with a shrug. “Each fleet still has its own unofficial leader, and they don’t much like that someone from another Clan swept in and took the wheel. But no one’s going to make a move. Not unless they want to lose their head.”

The laugh that bubbled out of her lips was at once proud and a little bit resentful. “My mother’s just that kind of person. Careful. She doesn’t trust anyone. Not fully, at least.” She shook her head and sighed, glancing at him sidelong. “But that’s beside the point. Why’d you bring up… inocumations, was it?”

“Inoculations,” Aerin corrected as he waved his hand toward the river. “I mentioned the other day that drinking the river water shouldn’t kill us but it would make us sick because it is still contaminated by spores.”

“I remember that.”

“If we had more time, we could have inoculated ourselves. Small, consistent doses of the water could have helped us build up an immunity to the poison,” Aerin felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders as he spoke. It was a nice distraction, to be able to talk about something he actually understood again. It seemed as if the last few days had only served to show him how little he actually knew about anything. “Our bodies are naturally adapting, albeit slowly. But right now, breathing in the spores would still kill us.”

“And you think that this mithridatism thing would enable us to… what? We could walk through the fields without having to cover up?” The question came not from Imtura, but surprisingly, Mal.

Aerin turned to find that both Mal and Nia were listening in with mild interest. He nodded and offered a modest shrug. “Theoretically.”

“How long would such a thing take?” Nia asked, a curious glimmer in her eyes.

Aerin pursed his lips, thinking back to the texts he’d read. “Weeks, possibly. But more realistically, months.”

Mal scoffed, rolling his eyes. “So this is useless information. No point in talking about theories when we have no choice but to deal.”

And just like that, Aerin’s mood had soured once more. His bristled, his lips twisting into a scowl. He hadn’t realized that idle conversation was supposed to  _ have a point.  _ “Yes. It’s useless.”

“Well, _ I _ thought it was interesting,” Nia piped up, her voice bright. “The Temple of Light in Whitetower had a library but I never had much time to read anything other than the scriptures we acolytes were assigned, but I’ve always wanted to learn more.” The skin around Nia’s eyes crinkled as if she were smiling beneath the cloth that concealed the lower half of her face. “In fact, before we left, I picked up a few books about anatomy and medicine. I never got around to reading them, but I’m looking forward to it when all of this is over.  _ If _ it ever ends.”

Aerin frowned at that last bit although no one bothered to address it. It seemed that they were all in agreement that such a dire conversation was not what they needed right now. Aerin wanted to reassure her that everything would turn out alright but he was trying to avoid making any more promises he could not keep. Instead, he said, “Medicine and anatomy? Nia, are you considering becoming a healer?”

Nia twisted her fingers together as she gazed at the ground and shrugged bashfully. “Well, since I’m not with the Temple anymore, I’ve been thinking about what I want to do with myself. I still want to help people and that’s what healers do. I think it’s what I would have liked to do if I hadn’t been taken in by the priests.”

Mal turned to her, his brows furrowed. “Can’t you just use your magic to heal people?”

“Well, yes, but as of right now, I only know how to mend tissue and treat some of the more common maladies. Often, the Light can only do so much during one session and healing can be very taxing. Sometimes more serious injuries or illnesses require multiple priests,” Nia explained, calmly folding her hands before her. It seemed as if she, like Aerin, found some sort of solace in sharing knowledge. “So I realized that if I could learn how to heal people the way healers do  _ and _ use the Light as necessary, I could probably help more people in a certain amount of time than I would be able to with my magic alone.” 

Nia continued on, absently playing with the sparkling Bracelet of Lysandra that gleamed on her wrist. “Also, there aren’t really any public clinics that employ both magic-users and healers. I think it would be a great idea to have one that isn’t associated with the Temple of Light. I know some people are wary of the Temple now, after everything that has come out about its prisoners.” She turned to Mal, her expression somber. “You told me once that people who live in the Nooks and Crannies are refusing to seek help from the priests. Do you think that they would seek help at an independent clinic? Even a magical one?”

Mal looked baffled. “I―yes, I’m sure of it. But I… you’ve never told me about any of this. I had no idea you even wanted to be a healer.”

Nia shrugged, her gaze falling to her feet. “I know it’s a lot of work and the job can be harrowing. I wanted to make sure I could do it before I made any promises. I know how important the Nooks and Crannies are to you.”

“Nia…” Mal was stunned―for the first time in his life, Aerin assumed―into silence.

“It’s a noble profession,” Aerin supplied, gazing at the priestess thoughtfully. He could certainly see Nia doing such a thing. “It is hard work, and sometimes thankless, but I think you would be good at it.”

Nia seemed to visibly brighten at that. “Thank you, Aerin.”

Imtura cleared her throat glancing from Mal to Nia before she nodded to her. “I know me and my crew would be damn lucky to have you as a healer aboard my ship. Bumbling fools are always splicing their hands on rope or their own damn blades no matter how many times I tell them to watch themselves.”

Nia laughed lightly, the first joyous sound any of them had heard in days. Amidst their present misery, it was like a balm, a reminder of better times. Aerin wondered if anyone had ever laughed in these dreadful poison fields before―a pure, simple laugh. He doubted it. 

“Maybe one day I’ll join you on an overseas adventure, Imtura,” Nia replied. “The last trip was, well…”

“Horrible?” Mal offered.

“Stressful,” Nia amended and Imtura chuckled. “I would like to see what a fun voyage with you would be like.”

“Funny,” Imtura remarked, nodding her chin towards Iliana, who was still trekking on ahead of them with Tyril. “The landrat said something similar the other day.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “You’re all welcome aboard any time. As long as you pull your own weight and don’t talk back, that is. I’m looking at you, Mal.”

“Hey, now―”

Imtura turned to Aerin, her expression softening ever so slightly. “The offer stands for you too, prince.”

Behind them, Mal made a near-silent noise of disapproval, but Aerin found that this time, he did not really mind. For the first time since they had entered these fields, Aerin felt a sense of lightness, as if for a few moments, the world and the weight of all he had done did not rest upon his shoulders. He offered Imtura a small smile, even though she couldn’t see it. “I will keep that in mind.”

After that, they lapsed into another bout of silence, although this was not nearly as oppressive as the last. Aerin’s head felt a little clearer, his existence a little more solid. Aerin gazed at the river, then at the colorful field of flowers that stretched around them. Even if they were poisonous and awful and a bane of their existence, he supposed they  _ were _ rather pretty.

Aerin felt a slight nudge at his elbow and looked over to find Nia at his side, her warm eyes wide and tentatively curious. “You enjoy reading, don’t you? Iliana says you know a lot about… well, everything.”

_ Did she now? _ Aerin’s gaze strayed to Iliana and he noted that her neck was twisted ever so slightly, angling her ear toward them. He wondered how long she had been listening for. He turned back to Nia. “Certainly not everything. Lately, I’ve begun to think that I don’t know very much at all.”

Nia’s eyes creased with another smile. “I imagine you still know a lot more than the rest of us do.” She tilted her head. “Do you know anything about healing?”

Aerin shrugged. “A bit.”

“Could you tell me about it?”

Aerin raised his eyebrows. Nia wanted to learn  _ from him? _ He quickly glanced at Imtura for counsel―odd, how she had already become someone he trusted in Iliana’s absence―but she only mirrored his expression as if to say,  _ Go on. Do you need me to hold your hand or something? _

Aerin turned back to Nia and nodded. “Of course.”

As he told Nia everything he knew and she listened with avid attention, Aerin found himself wondering if this was what it felt like to belong.

* * *

By the time night fell, a sort of somberness settled over the group once more.

The party sat around the campfire, staring into the fire, the stars, or nothingness. Tyril was laid out on his back, staring up at the night sky. Mal sat beside him, one arm braced on his knee as the other was planted on the ground, his hand splayed across the grass. Iliana stretched out on her stomach next to him, her chin cupped in her palm as she focused on rapidly stabbing one of Mal’s knives into the spaces between his fingers in some sort of pattern that made Aerin just a bit anxious. 

Next to Aerin, Nia looked on, equally nervous as she idly combed through Threep’s fur. The nesper purred, his tail flicking back and forth contentedly. Imtura stared into the fire, braiding and unbraiding her hair in a bored, trance-like state. 

Aerin laid on his side, head propped up on his knuckles as he traced shapes in the dirt with a stick―a circle, a crown, a tree. He drew a cube that reminded him of the puzzle his mother had given him when he was a young boy. He quickly erased that.

He still could not wrap his mind around what the Khagan had told him. His mother―she had seen her,  _ spoken _ to her. His mother was still alive, living in a village near the base of the mountains of Vishanti. The Khagan could have been lying about this, of course. At least partially―there were still a few things the Khagan had said that she could not have known about unless she had spoken to the Queen. But Aerin had a strong feeling in his gut that for once, everything the Khagan had told him was the truth.

His mother was  _ alive.  _ After she had left that day, during the celebration of Baldur’s eighteenth year, Aerin had not heard a single thing about her well-being. He had known better than to hope for a letter or something concrete that told him she had safely made it to her destination, wherever that was. And yet, he had longed for  _ something, _ if only to reaffirm in his own mind that her escape had not been a figment of his imagination, that the hunting accident his father told the kingdom about was not the actual truth. For so long he had held out hope that his mother might send him some sort of sign, a hidden message that would reveal where she had gone in case he ever wanted to follow. 

But as time passed and the days after the hunt bled into weeks, then months, and even  _ years,  _ Aerin accepted that his mother was gone. Perhaps not dead, but gone. Permanently.

Except she wasn’t. The Khagan knew where the Queen had gone. She had offered to take him to her, at a price of course. But Aerin had refused. At the time, it had been an easy decision. Even now, he knew he would make the same choice if faced with it again. There was too much at stake, too much riding on this quest of theirs to find Kade and the Old Gods for him to give in to a desire as selfish as dredging up a relic from his past. No, rejecting the Khagan’s deal was the only way forward for him, for Morella, for the Realm. If the Empire of Ash was coming, Aerin had to chase legends, not ghosts.

Eventually, it was Threep who broke the silence. He sighed, causing the fabric that covered his muzzle to undulate as his whiskers twitched. “I would love some elven wine right now.”

“You  _ always _ want elven wine,” Nia teased, combing her long fingers through his mottled fur.

“Have you tasted it?” Threep retorted. “If you have, you always would, too.”

Tyril sighed. “You nespers and your expensive tastes. If we housed Loola  _ and _ you, the Starfury coffers would be drained by the next Ancestral Masquerade.”

Iliana paused, her knife poised over Mal’s crafty fingers as she looked at Tyril, her brow raised. “That  _ is _ coming up in a few months, isn’t it. House Starfury is hosting this year, right?” 

“Yes. As House Ascendant, it is our job to host the Masquerade,” Tyril replied, still gazing up at the stars. “Loola and I were helping Adrina plan before you came to visit.”

“Already?”

“It takes a lot of preparation. After last year’s disastrous Masquerade, Adrina is determined to make this one especially spectacular.”

“I wouldn’t say it was a  _ complete _ disaster,” Imtura added, looking up from her braid. “We were pretty successful.”

Mal pointed at her. “Damn right we were. Although I gotta agree with you, kitty cat. A glass of Celestial icewine sounds mighty fine right about now. Been thinking about that stuff for months.”

At this, Tyril sat up, his eyes narrowing. “When did you try Celestial icewine?”

Mal stiffened and Aerin did not miss the look he threw Iliana’s way. “Er… I haven’t?”

Tyril turned to Iliana, eyes questioning. Instead, she ignored it and began to use the tip of Mal’s knife to clean beneath her fingernails―much to the thief’s dismay―and sighed wistfully. “Forget elven wine. I would die for some juneberry juice, right now.”

Nia perked up. “Oh, I love juneberry juice! I haven’t had that in  _ years _ !”

“Damn, kit, that brought back a wave of nostalgia,” Mal clucked, reaching over and plucking his knife from Iliana’s fingers and tucking it safely away. “I used to drink that stuff all the time as a kid until the ladies at the orphanage told me that if I kept drinking it at the rate I did, my teeth would fall out.”

Nia nodded. “It  _ is _ very sweet. That’s why we weren’t allowed to drink it at the Temple.”

Aerin tilted his head, perplexed. “Juneberry juice?”

“You’ve never had juneberry juice?” Iliana asked from the other side of the campfire, her brows raised. Aerin shook his head. He’d never even heard of it. 

“It’s a peasant’s drink, kit,” Mal said as he nudged her shoulder. “They’d never let such teeth-rotting sludge into the palace.”

Iliana rolled her eyes, shoving him back. “The peasants don’t _ own _ juneberry juice.” She turned to Aerin. “It’s just a type of really sweet juice made from juneberries. It’s really popular in Riverbend since they grow in abundance along the river.”

“And they turn your mouth as purple as a Tonguemelter,” Mal added and Iliana wrinkled her nose in distaste. 

_ Juneberries? Tonguemelters? _ Aerin had never tried these, although he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.

Nia let out a heavy sigh, propping her elbow on her knee and resting her chin in her hand. “I miss home. My cozy blankets, my garden, my clothes… I know it’s silly but―”

“Nah, I get you, priestess,” Imtura assured her, her own expression uncharacteristically wistful. “I miss the lilt of the fo’c’sle beneath my feet, the breeze in my hair, the sea salt in my lungs… I even miss my cabin, with its creaky floorboards and the stench of lantern oil.” 

“I admit I do miss the comforts of our manor,” Tyril confessed, pushing himself up to a sitting position. “I know the rest of you have never seen it since it has been restored―well, Iliana, you have―but it is quite pleasant now. We built a new fountain in our garden where Kaya and I used to spend hours talking.” He closed his eyes, face serene. “I could hear it babbling from my window. It always helped me fall asleep.”

“It is very lovely,” Iliana concurred. Her eyes skimmed the faces of her companions and Aerin tried to ignore the way his heart jumped when her attention fell on him. She arched a brow at him as if to prompt him into sharing, but Aerin only shook his head. There was nothing from home that he missed. Whatever home even was. 

Her brows flattened, fingers curling into the grass beneath her. For a moment, Aerin thought she might go to him, but she stayed stationary and looked away. “What about you, Mal?”

“Mm, not me,” he answered, shaking his head. “I’ve always been more comfortable out in the world, with the ground at my back and the night sky overhead.

“Really?” Nia blurted, leaning back slightly. “But you’re always going on about how much you enjoy the comforts of a fluffy bed and gilded furniture and all of that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s one thing to appreciate all of that but it’s another to actually have it,” Mal shrugged. “S’much as I covet it, I don’t think I could ever lead a life of luxury. I don’t know what I would do with all of that frill besides stare at it. And the last thing I’d want to do is become another rich and stuffy socialite.”

“Ah, so there is more to you than your greedy fingers,” Imtura teased good-naturedly and Mal rolled his eyes.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he stated, waving his hand in an arc. “I’m proud of what I’ve got and I’m grateful to have made it out of the Nooks and Crannies. But sometimes I just need to get out on the road. Is that odd?

“No, I think I understand what you mean, Mal,” Iliana said, gazing at the southern horizon, toward home. The mountains of Vishanti were small peaks in the distance, lost in a haze of mist and snow. “I love my home in Whitetower. It’s the first place that’s ever really been mine. But sometimes I’d come home and have this weird urge to get out of the city for a little while, or else I’d be suffocated.”

“ _ Exactly, _ ” Mal agreed, swatting the ground with his hand and Aerin found himself nodding along. He definitely understood that feeling. His mother had too. 

“Once, not long after… everything happened,” Iliana cleared her throat, eyes straying to the ground. They shone bright in the firelight, reflective, like the eerie vision of a nocturnal predator. But tonight, there was nothing deadly in her gaze, only somberness, even as her eyes creased with a smile. “I took Kade camping in the heartoak forest. Just to get away for a little while.”

“No offense, Iliana, but your brother doesn’t strike me as the outdoorsy type,” Imtura remarked and Iliana huffed a laugh, shaking her head.

“He’s not,” she admitted with a shrug. “Even when we were kids, he was more comfortable indoors. But that didn’t stop him from getting into all sorts of trouble with me.” She shook her head and Aerin knew without having to see beneath the cloth that she was smiling wryly. “That still hasn’t changed. We thought it’d be fun to go out as we did in the old days. Kade brought his lute, I handled the rest of the supplies. Made sure we weren’t going to die.”

Aerin remembered hearing about this trip. It had happened a little while after Kade had started keeping Aerin company in the palace dungeons. Then, Aerin had felt nothing but resentment―resentment towards his father for leaving him in a cell to rot, towards Iliana for deceiving him, and towards Kade for treating him like charity work, although Aerin ultimately realized that was not the case at all. Now, Aerin wished he had listened better, without bitterness in his heart. 

Aerin had once told the Khagan that he had a long list of regrets. Looking back now, Aerin realized that somewhere near the top, he had another one to add―he had not been a better friend to Kade. It seemed like a juvenile thing to fret about, but he couldn’t help but agonize over it now. How likely was it that Kade was even still alive? That he was somehow out here? If he was, was he in the fields? Or had he already moved on into Rysoth? If there even was such a place?

“And how was your trip?” Nia asked.

_ It was a disaster,  _ Kade had told Aerin back in the dungeons.

Iliana snorted. “It was a nightmare.”

_ One and the same, _ Aerin thought wryly.

“There was a storm that night,” Iliana began, pushing herself up to a seated position. “It came out of nowhere. Put out our campfire, waterlogged our food, soaked our clothes  _ and _ our blankets. Our tent barely held up. We spent all night wondering if we were going to blow away.”

“Why didn’t you just go home?” Aerin asked, tilting his head. He had wondered that when Kade told him about the trip, although then he had been too busy brooding to ask. Or to even care.

Iliana shrugged as she gazed down at her hands, restless in her lap. When she spoke, her voice was soft. Small. “I don’t know. We didn’t want to give up and go back. I guess we just wanted to pretend that everything was alright.”

Aerin knew she was not just talking about the weather.

“Anyways.” She cleared her throat, shaking her head to clear her mind. “We were huddled together, shivering so hard our bones rattled. The wind, it sounded like a pack of screeching banshees, so we couldn’t sleep. A few errant branches tore holes in our tent, so rainwater kept leaking through. Every time I patched one up, another ripped open.”

“But after hours and hours of pouring rain and flashing lightning,” Iliana continued, closing her eyes as her shoulders lifted with a deep, serene breath, “the storm let up. Just before dawn.” Her tone grew wistful, faraway. “It was so quiet. So… peaceful. We could hear little creatures stirring underfoot, wings rustling overhead. And Kade, he brought out his lute and he sang this song, an old one from the fiefdom wars. It went like―” Her brows drew together, a small crease forming between them as she tried to remember. “It went like this…”

_ You may travel far far _

_ from your own native land, _

_ Far away o'er the mountains, _

_ far a-way o'er the foam, _

_ But of all the fine places _

_ that I've ever been _

_ Sure there's none can compare _

_ with the sweet fields of home. _

Iliana’s voice was not the loveliest Aerin had ever heard. He had attended many operas in Whitetower with his family to show their support for the arts. Compared to the talented singers he had listened to in the theaters, Iliana’s voice was low and a little gravelly, slightly muffled through the fabric that concealed the lower half of her face. But as she warmed up, it became rich and smooth, like polished mahogany wood, and Aerin soon found himself utterly bewitched.

_ Fare thee well to my Mother, _

_ fare thee well for a while _

_ And to all the kind people _

_ I'm leaving behind _

_ To the streams and the meadows _

_ where late I have been _

_ And the gently rolling hills _

_ round the sweet fields of home. _

The song was melodious and almost mournful. Iliana’s voice permeated through the air, almost haunting in its solemn beauty. As he listened to her, Aerin was instilled with an incredible longing, so deep and profound, for home, wherever― _ whatever _ ―that was.

What  _ did  _ Aerin miss? He certainly did not miss his cell. Perhaps the library? Or his old rooms? He had grown up within those walls, but as Aerin recalled the time he spent in those two places, or really any space in the palace, he felt nothing. He supposed home for him did not feel like the palace or even Whitetower, but Morella as a whole. Morella had always been at the forefront of his mind, the top of his priorities. In the end, he was just a boy who loved his kingdom―there was nothing special or complicated about it. Little things like his favorite juice or reading spot had always seemed trivial in comparison to the love he harbored for his kingdom.

_ One day I shall visit the place of my birth _

_ And they'll give me a welcome the warmest on earth _

_ All so loving and kind full of music and mirth, _

_ In the sweet-sounding language of home. _

A short silence lingered after Iliana finished her song, the last line lingering in the air like the end of a spell no one wanted to break. When Iliana opened her eyes and took in the homesick expressions of her companions, a violet blush crept up her neck and bloomed along the delicate arches of her ears. “Sorry. I got caught up in the memory.”

“It was beautiful, Iliana,” Tyril told her earnestly. “I think it stirred up a lot of emotions for all of us.”

“Beautiful,” Mal agreed. “And the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

_ That’s one way to put it, _ Aerin thought as he blew out a long, steadying breath between his teeth.

“It had a nice ending,” Nia offered as she combed her fingers through her long, red hair.

Iliana looked down at the ground, still bashful. “Kade sang some other ones that we’ve picked up in taverns over the years, but, well…” Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she grinned. “They’re a little rowdy. I’ll spare your ears the filth.”

“Aw, come on, landrat! Maybe that’s what we need right now,” Imtura egged her on, slapping her hands on her thighs. “Nothing like a good ol’ gutbuster of a song to lift the spirits. We could certainly use the boost. We’ve come so far, we deserve a little celebration! A little bit of music, a little bit of bourbon… Come on, lads! We can’t just mope around all night long.”

“Uh, take a look around, Immy,” Mal said, waving his hand in a circle. “See any instruments?”

“Bah, you don’t need instruments,” Imtura huffed, rolling her eyes. “Especially not for a sea shanty.”

Nia perked up. “I’ve never heard a sea shanty before!”

Aerin pursed his lips. He wasn’t sure he had either.

“Well, priestess, I have a  _ lot _ in store for you tonight,” Imtura promised, her eyes narrowing as she grinned. “Anyone know ‘Blow the Man Down’?”

Tyril’s brow pinched. “‘Blow the Man Down’?”

“‘Blow the Man Down’!” Mal exclaimed, leaping to his feet. He turned and grabbed Iliana’s arm. “This is a good one, kit. You’re gonna want to move around a bit.”

Iliana’s eyes widened as Mal hauled her up before she could refuse. “Now, wait a second, Mal―”

Imtura uncapped her flask and took a great swig beneath the fabric that covered her mouth before she belched and bellowed, “ _ Oh, blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down!” _

“Come on, Riverbend!” Mal shouted, taking Iliana’s hands and swinging her in a circle. “I know you lowlanders know how to dance!  _ Way aye! Blow the man down! _ ”

Aerin looked on, unable to hide his amusement as Iliana skipped around the campfire with Mal as he and Imtura continued to whoop and holler.

_ As I was a-walking down Paradise Street _

_ Way aye blow the man down _

_ A pretty young damsel I chanced for to meet. _

_ Give me some time to blow the man down! _

As he watched Iliana’s grimace melt into a beaming expression of joy and her laughter joined the cacophony that rumbled through the air, he felt his own mouth relax into a small smile. When he glanced around his loose circle of companions, Aerin noticed that even Tyril’s icy demeanor had washed away and the elf lord was bobbing his head to the raucous shanty.

Aerin felt a nudge at his elbow and glanced over to see Imtura holding her flask out to him, her brow raised and face schooled into an incorrigible expression as she sang.  _ This _ was a pirate captain, there was no doubt about it. Aerin glanced down at the flask, then took it.  _ Might as well.  _

As expected from the last time Aerin tried the orcish bourbon, it burned like each one of the seven hells going down. But once it settled in his stomach, a delicious and invigorating warmth spread throughout his body, loosening up his limbs and easing some of the tension that simmered between his bones.

“This is fun!” Nia exclaimed, clapping her hands as Mal and Iliana spun round and round. Aerin could not identify what style of dance this was ―it was far too wild and expressive for the steps he had learned in the palace. He could practically hear Mal’s snide,  _ It’s a peasant’s dance _ . But whatever it was, Mal and Iliana certainly knew it well. They were in perfect sync, effortlessly skipping and stepping around each other’s feet in a flawless, jovial dance.

Every year, the Valleros family had presided over the Beltane Festival in Whitetower, but Aerin knew that the celebrations were far less rowdy in the capital than they ever were in the countryside. The capital city did not have the space for the large bonfires that were customary of the holiday. Instead, the Whitetower celebration was best known for its garish parade and bustling market. Aerin had never been able to witness how the festival was celebrated in other regions of the kingdom, had never seen people dance with the reckless abandon he’d heard was common during Beltane, but he imagined that this was what it looked like. As he watched the firelight dance in Iliana’s eyes, heard her laughter mingle with the shanty, Aerin certainly saw the appeal.

“It’s even more fun when  _ you’re  _ dancing, priestess!” Mal stated in between lines of the song as he released Iliana’s hands and reached to pull Nia to her feet.

“Oh! I ―” Nia yelped as Mal tugged her upward. 

“You can count me out of this one,” Threep muttered as he leaped out of Nia’s lap and bounded toward Tyril.

“It’ll be fun,” Mal promised, taking her hands between his. “Just follow my lead.”

“I―well, okay,” Nia said before promptly bursting into giggles as he spun her around in a dizzying circle.

Aerin’s smile bloomed. It was impossible not to bask in Nia’s radiance, to feel a bit of it for himself. When he at last pulled his gaze away from them, he realized that Iliana was standing before him, her hand outstretched.

The protest was immediately on his lips as he looked up at her. “I couldn’t possibly―”

“Couldn’t possibly what?” Iliana questioned and Aerin could tell by the way her eyes were sparkling, she was smiling. “Have fun?”

Aerin shook his head, leaning back. “I don’t know how to…” He glanced over at Mal and Nia. “Do that.”

“Nevermind that,” she tsked, curling her fingers in a ‘come hither’ motion. “If we could teach Tyril, we can teach you.”

For a moment, Aerin felt a spike of bitterness.  _ Are you afraid of me now? _

Iliana’s hand dipped as if she had sensed his callous thoughts. Or perhaps they showed on his face, clear as day―Aerin had a habit of dropping his guard around her. She was about to pull away, spurned, when Aerin took her hand. “Alright.”

Iliana arched a brow, hesitant, but when Aerin began to push himself up, she hauled him up on her own, nearly yanking him off balance. “Iliana!”

“Sorry,” she apologized, although Aerin thought she didn’t sound very sorry about it at all as she guided him through a quick series of steps Aerin was relieved to see that he already knew. Iliana faced him and looped her arm through his before skipping in a half-circle, then spun around, and did the same thing in the other direction. “See, you’re fine.”

“This is just jumping and turning,” Aerin argued, perplexed. The dance looked so merry and carefree when it had been Mal and Iliana, but now Aerin couldn’t find the rhythm in it. In fact, as he looked over at Mal and Nia, he noted they weren’t even doing the same thing. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s not supposed to make sense, Aerin,” she told him, a little breathless as they spun around, her feet nimbly avoiding his clumsy footfalls. “It’s just like our sword-fighting lesson.”

Aerin’s befuddlement only grew. “What part?”

Iliana squeezed his hand, then raised it, lifting his arm over her so she could duck beneath it before twirling around him. “The part where I told you that I didn’t know a damn thing about my technique. I just use everything I know to make sure I survive.”

Aerin arched a brow. “You want me to treat dancing like a fight for my life?”

Iliana barked out a laugh that was startling and a bit abrasive, although it incited in Aerin a wave of tender affection nonetheless. “ _ No. _ I want you to forget about trying to find a style or even a particular set of steps. Just do what you have to in order to―”

“Survive?” he offered dryly.

_ “Have fun,” _ Iliana corrected.

_ But as we were going she said unto me _

_ Way aye blow the man down _

_ "There's a spanking full-rigger just ready for sea." _

_ Give me some time to blow the man down! _

Aerin tried to follow her advice, but he still stumbled over his own feet, even stepping on her heel once or twice. Dancing had never been about fun for him. It had always been a displace of grace and elegance, something he had to do to appease the court at gatherings. Even something as simple as choosing a partner required careful thought.

“You’re still in your own head,” Iliana murmured, leading him around the fire in a whirlwind. Her gaze was intent on his, the tops of her cheeks stained indigo. Dark strands of hair clung to her temples, plastered with sweat.“Come out.”

“I feel like I look ridiculous,” Aerin confessed, threading his fingers through his curls as he combed them back from his forehead. “Like a fool.”

“Who are you worried about seeing you?” Iliana asked over her shoulder, her hair swaying like a dark river behind her. “Our friends? They don’t care about how you dance. Look at Mal,” she instructed, draping her arm across his chest and resting her hand on his shoulder as she turned him toward the other dancing pair. “ _ That’s _ a fool. But does anyone here care? No.”

“Mal is Mal,” Aerin said simply as if that was explanation enough. And in a way, it was. Mal didn’t care what anyone thought of him. He had an air of self-assurance that Aerin begrudgingly admired, the kind of confidence that allowed a person to sail through life, comfortable in their own skin, and to never falter. Baldur had that same quality as well, although Aerin reminded himself that they were not the same. 

Iliana sent him a puzzled look. “And you are you,” she stated simply, shrugging. “No one is asking you to be any different. But if you are still worried, then… just forget the others are here. It’s just you and me. And you know I don’t care about how you dance.”

_ What do you care about?  _ Aerin wondered, not with bitterness but innocent interest. Every day, he found himself wanting to learn more about her, even during hours when they weren’t speaking.

Aerin inhaled, clearing his mind, even as heat licked up his spine from hopping around for so long. Focus on Iliana―he could do that. With ease.

_ So I give you fair warning before we belay, _

_ Way aye blow the man down _

_ Don't ever take heed of what pretty girls say. _

_ Give me some time to blow the man down! _

Eventually, Aerin began to loosen up, allowing his body to take the lead as his mind finally ceased in its constant churning and assessing. He still let Iliana lead, but moving became easier, less flustering and more… fun.

“There you go, princeling,” Iliana praised him a little while later after Imtura and Mal launched into another rowdy sea shanty. “That’s it. You’re getting it.”

Aerin huffed something that might have been a laugh. “The courtiers would absolutely have a fit if they ever saw me like this.”

“Is it bad that I kind of wish they were here just so I could see their faces?” Iliana asked, her brows lowering mischievously. “I’ve never met them, but based on what you’ve told me, they sound like a fun lot to piss off.”

“It was all that I could do to  _ not _ piss them off,” Aerin replied, surprising even himself by how easily he slipped into her colloquial tongue. His etiquette tutor had long since passed away but Aerin imagined the old man was probably rolling in his grave right now. “It was part of my job to please them at every event we had. But you,” Aerin shook his head, unable to stop himself from grinning. “Gods forbid they ever meet you.”

Iliana let out a sound of mock offense as she lifted his hands and spun beneath the arc of their arms before encouraging him to do the same. “Why? I can act all courtly.” She pitched her voice up an octave. “I can be a proper  _ lady.” _

Aerin thought of her tall, lean, and muscled frame in the frilly dresses the nobility favored, paired with all of the weapons she traveled with. Perhaps it was because the image of her mingling with the other ladies of the court was so absurd or that small swig of orcish bourbon had loosened his lips, but Aerin’s smile broadened even more beneath the wool wrap.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt you could swindle the court,” he teased, easily guiding Iliana into a loose twirl without even realizing it. He was breathless now and definitely sweating from the dancing and the close proximity of the fire. He could feel his damp hair curling against the back of his neck. “It’s the lords and ladies whom I fear for. You would absolutely tear them to shreds.”

Iliana laughed, the sound bright and tinkling, like dew drops on a sunny day. It amazed him how many different laughs she had―a dry one, a startled one, a merry one, an alluring one, and a pleased one. All of them, he thought, were charming in their own way.

Aerin lifted his arm to spin with her once more but Iliana surprised him by ducking beneath it and looping her own around his neck. “Maybe that’s what the nobility needs. A little shaking up. Or just a simple kick in the ass.”

She was suddenly so near, so close, Aerin felt his heart leap into his throat. Even through all of the layers of clothing that separated them, Aerin could feel her warmth, which was both comforting and electrifying.

“If you ever did become king, like the Khagan wanted,” she said playfully, her eyes flicking between his. “I’d gladly keep them in line for you. If only so some actual change could get done around our kingdom.”

Aerin’s breath quickened and he was overcome with a bout of lightheadedness that he knew had nothing to do with the bourbon nor the dancing. Up close, he could see each of the laugh lines that creased the corners of her eyes, and suddenly, Aerin despised the poison fields, simply because that damned piece of wool covered her smile.

Aerin swallowed the lump in his throat as he hesitantly settled his hands on her upper back, not far below her shoulders. He was distantly aware that Mal and Nia were still whooping and whirling around, Imtura was drunkenly bellowing another song, and Tyril was nursing his own flask as he fed extra rations to Threep. All of Aerin’s focus was drawn to his feet―if only so they didn’t crush Iliana’s―and how wonderful it felt to have her in his arms. It had only been three days since they had last held each other in this proximity, but it might as well have been an eternity. So many things had changed since then, but if their current predicament was anything to go by, it seemed that nothing had really changed at all. 

“What happened needing to stay focused?” Aerin asked softly so that only she could hear, recalling their last conversation alone together in that tent.

“Stay focused?” Iliana echoed, blinking at the sudden shift in conversation. He saw the confusion in her gaze shift to conflict. “I…” 

Her brows knitted together and she glanced away, staring into the dark fields. Although he could not see, Aerin had a feeling she was worrying her lip between her teeth. When she met his gaze again, the look she gave him was so resigned and wanton, Aerin felt his stomach twist itself into several knots.

He felt her fingers play with the curls at the nape of his neck as she shook her head, dropping her voice to a nearly inaudible whisper. “I think we can forget about that just for one night.” She glanced around, noting that none of their companions seemed to be paying them an ounce of attention. “Everyone else has.”

It was a fight to keep himself standing upright. Aerin’s legs felt as if they had suddenly turned to liquid. Those two words kept swirling around his head, a maelstrom of syllables and letters.  _ One night, one night. _

It was perhaps then that Aerin realized he would take anything she gave him, whether that was one night or one second.

Aerin’s voice was embarrassingly rough and low. “What do you want?”

He heard Iliana suck in a sharp breath, watched the blush on her cheeks and ears darken into something he wanted to taste. He pulled back to see her better, to gauge every bit of her reaction that he could see as she responded when―

A foot snagged around his ankle and yanked, throwing Aerin off balance. He stumbled back out of Iliana’s arms and tripped over his own feet in his attempt to catch himself, landing on the ground with a thud.

Aerin looked up, his face aflame with embarrassment as Mal danced by, their gazes locking.

“Whoops! My bad,” Mal said innocently, one roguish brow lifted. “I’ve got clumsy feet.”

_ That _ was a damned lie. Aerin scowled, his mood instantly darkening, as if he was a flame that had been smothered by an oppressive rain. He felt the Shadow in him stir, egging him on but he shoved it down. 

“Mal,” Iliana scolded, her tone harsh and angry. Nia smacked his shoulder disapprovingly and pulled him to a stop.

_ Iliana’s mad,  _ Aerin seethed to himself before he could stop his train of thought.  _ So are you. As you should be. _

“Oh, relax, kit,” Mal said lightly, casually waving a dismissive hand. “He’s a grown man. He can handle a bit of teasing without you fussing over him like he’s some lost pup.”

“That’s not what this is about and you know it,” she snapped, turning to help Aerin up.

No, this wasn’t just good-natured teasing. _ He’s had it out for you ever since this journey began,  _ Aerin reminded himself, even as he tried to remember all of the times they were on the same side.

There had been their escape from Whitetower, when Mal had sided with Aerin, had sympathized with his decision to intervene with the corrupt city watch. 

_ Well, what was he supposed to do? Let that family get separated? _

Mal had also supported the decision to let Aerin meet with the Khagan.

_ The princeling goes. He knows the most about these people and their customs. And he got us out of that mess earlier, even though he landed us in these cells. But we’re alive, so I guess that says something. Bunch of fancy talk does work sometimes. _

But those were just two events compared to many snide comments, dark looks, and snarls. Those were just two events, and they weren’t enough to quell the rising tide of his fury.

Aerin snarled, batting Iliana’s hand out of the way as he shoved himself to his feet, dusting off his clothes as he did. “What exactly is your problem with me?”

Immediately, Imtura stopped singing her shanties, her knuckles paling as she gripped her flask tighter. Her eyes blazed like hot coals and Aerin could read in her posture that she wanted to get up and intervene. Tyril sat up straighter, his slender hands poised over Threep’s midsection as if he were ready to move the nesper aside and jump in if necessary. Aerin’s fingers curled into his palms. He didn’t want anyone else’s help. Or anyone else to stop him.

“Problems. Not ‘problem.’  _ Problems. _ Plural,” Mal corrected, pinching the air with his fingers for punctuation. “And you do not want to go down that rabbit hole, Your Highness.”

His tone was so mocking, so condescending, it made Aerin’s blood boil.

“Actually, I think I do,” he hissed, stepping forward.

“Aerin,” Iliana began and if his focus could have been pulled away from the smug-looking rogue, he might have noticed the shift in her tone from defensive to cautioning.

“As you wish, prince,” Mal replied all too obligingly as he held up his hands and began to tick off his fingers. “Let’s see. There’s the fact that you are a notorious liar and schemer. You deceived us about―how many times now? First, you led us to believe that you’re a good but weak prince―actually, maybe that last bit  _ was _ the truth. Then you let  _ everyone _ believe that your mother, the Queen, is dead. You hid your Shadow magic from us.”

“Mal, stop it!” Iliana demanded as Nia tugged on his wrist, eyes pleading.

“I do not trust you, prince,” Mal continued, striding forward so that he could press his finger against Aerin’s chest. With a twirl of his hand, he slipped a knife into his palm and pressed the tip beneath Aerin’s chin. “In fact, I would have trusted your half-witted, egotistical, spoiled brother of yours more than I will ever trust you. Oh, that’s another thing. You’re also a  _ murderer.  _ You showed your true colors that day in Whitetower, Your Highness. And I am just waiting for you to show them again―”

Something in Aerin snapped. He smacked Mal’s hand away, knocking the gleaming dagger from his fingertips, and lunged. He and Mal went tumbling to the ground, narrowly missing the campfire. Faintly, he heard the others react, although their voices sounded so far away, distorted, as if he were listening from underwater. 

Nia cried out in alarm, Tyril swore in elvish, Imtura damned one of them―he didn’t catch who but he hoped it was Mal―to rot at the bottom of the sea, and Iliana yelled for them to stop.

Aerin did not have a lot of practice with brawling, which was unfortunate to say the least because Mal certainly did. He managed to get a few solid punches in on Mal’s ribs and even one to his temple before the thief flipped them, pinning Aerin with his bulk. Aerin heard himself grunt before he even felt the pain of Mal’s knuckles cracking across his cheekbone once, twice, and then―

He didn’t get to throw a third punch in. Aerin kneed Mal in the gut, sending the air whooshing from his lungs―then took advantage of Mal’s surprise to shove him off and to the side.

“Imtura, stop them!” he heard Iliana yell, her voice angry and frantic.

Aerin rolled onto his side and kicked out his foot, striking Mal in the back of the thigh as he flung his hand out toward Imtura. “Don’t!”

_ Let me do this on my own, _ he snarled internally as he crawled toward Mal, who was still gasping for breath. To his surprise, Imtura seemed to listen. In his periphery, Aerin saw her back away.

Aerin swung for Mal’s exposed face, but the Whitetower Reaper was faster. Mal rolled out of the way so Aerin’s fist landed against his shoulder instead. As he and Mal continued to fight on the ground, Aerin felt the Shadow rise up in him, begging to be used, but he stuffed it down again. No, he would not break. He would not give in to it or resort to using its power. He did not want to use it, to need it. He could do this on his own.

“This is ridiculous!” Iliana exclaimed and Aerin heard her approaching footsteps. “Stop it! Both of you!”

Aerin felt a hand that might have been hers grip his shoulder, seeking to pry him and Mal apart―

It all happened so fast.

Iliana had been right. Fights in the real world―sword fights and fistfights, they were nothing like what he had learned in the palace. They lacked etiquette and grace and outside the palace, where Baldur was not Aerin’s only aggressor, he could actually fight back. Recently Aerin had come to learn that fights were fast and brutal and hard to keep track of. Sometimes it was hard for Aerin to identify where his own hands were, much less Mal’s. So even when he looked back on this moment―as he frequently did―Aerin could not say for certain whose fingers got snagged, whose fault it was.

Aerin and Mal responded at the same time, an arm outstretched and fingers grabbing to push Iliana away. Aerin felt her hair slide between his fingers, then the rush of cold air as she was shoved back.

There was a thud and then a shuddering, surprised, unmuffled gasp.

Immediately, Mal and Aerin froze. Ice speared through Aerin’s veins, his heart plummeting into his stomach as he and Mal turned to see what they had done. Iliana was sprawled on the ground by the fire, propped up on her elbows. A strip of fabric laid on the ground by her feet and her face, for the first time in three days, was bare. Uncovered. Exposed.

Aerin watched in horror as Iliana clutched at her throat, skin mottling a midnight blue as the poisonous air filled her lungs. 


	18. Welded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We bend, we break, and we weld ourselves back together again, stronger than ever before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: blood and gore, violence, strangulation, asphyxiation, mentions of drowning, death

Iliana was naturally gifted in a great number of things: running, climbing, shooting a bow, even weaving baskets―a surprising discovery considering how much she disliked the activity. Swimming, however, was not among the many things she was fortunate to be intrinsically good at.

When Iliana was six years old and Kade was four, Amphitryon took the two of them to a peaceful section of the river to teach them how to swim. It had been sweltering hot that day and Iliana could still recall the excitement she and Kade had felt over the prospect of escaping the heat, if only for a little while. Few things can truly compare to the relief one feels after diving deep beneath the glossy surface of a blissfully cool body of water on a scorching summer day.

After their basic lessons, Amphitryon had retreated to the riverbank to rest his sore limbs and watch from afar, shouting a single warning over his shoulder as he went.

_Do not go beyond where you can stand._

Perhaps it was because he was younger and therefore easier to teach or because he was simply more excited to learn, but for some reason, Kade had caught on to swimming much faster than she had. Iliana could handle herself just fine in the water, but Kade was a natural. He glided through the water, flipping, splashing, and spinning like the sparkling silver-scaled fish that swam upstream every spring, turning the river into a gleaming ribbon of liquid iron.

It was the obvious grace and ease with which her brother moved that made Iliana a little more determined to try harder, to prove that she could be just as good as he was. After all, she was older and more athletic―swimming should have been a breeze. She just had to get the hang of it, first.

While Kade had continued to effortlessly glide through the river―so effortlessly one would think he had spent his entire life in the water―Iliana was busy paddling around, focused on keeping her head above the surface as she vigorously pumped her arms and legs. There was just something about being completely submerged that unsettled her. Every time her mouth dipped beneath the surface, a bolt of panic shot through her, setting her mind on edge.

After paddling for so long, her lithe limbs were thoroughly exhausted. Iliana let herself drift down, toes outstretched as her feet sought the mossy rocks that lined the bottom of the river―only they were not where they should be. Iliana was so focused on staying above water, she had not realized how far she swam until it was too late.

Years later, she still remembered the fear that had gripped her so violently that day in the river, still remembered it every time she went swimming afterward. Iliana could not forget the way her chest had spasmed, how her lungs had sucked in air, then water―water that was so cold as it rushed into her mouth and her throat, Iliana’s entire body jerked in alarm and fright. It was everywhere, icy and oppressive, ripping her breath away and stealing her control over her own body.

Breathing in the poisonous air felt a lot like drowning.

Iliana convulsed on the ground, horrible, animal noises leaving her gasping lips. Everything hurt―her lungs, her skin, even her eyes as tears sprung up and blurred her vision. Unable to recognize that the air was poisonous, the cause of its pain, Iliana’s body screamed at her to keep breathing. But breathing was the one thing she could not do, the one thing that would make everything so much worse, assuming it could even get any more horrible than this. Iliana ground her teeth together, clamping her lips shut in a desperate attempt to stop the air from flooding her lungs until―until what? Until this stopped? _Could_ it stop? Or was the damage already done?

Over the sound of her own rushing blood and panicked thoughts, Iliana could hear the others shouting, although she could not focus enough to discern who was speaking. Maybe they all were.

Iliana tried to blink away her tears, to gaze upon her companions for perhaps the last time, but all she saw were muddled blobs of color outlined against a sea of uncaring stars. There were constellations up there, ones Kade had made up: Bartholomew the Great Bat, Spooky the Silly Specter, and so many more, all created to protect Iliana when she was a child. 

They certainly did not protect her now. 

“Do something, Nia!”

“I’m trying!”

Amidst the agonizing burning sensation that left her utterly debilitated, Iliana felt a softer, more gentle warmth settle over her. _Nia’s Light._ For a moment, the pain subsided.

“I think it’s―”

Iliana screamed, a horrid, wretched sound as pain slammed into her like a tidal wave, more vicious and vengeful than before, crushing her in its wrathful grip.

“ _What did you do?_ ”

“I don’t know! I tried to use the Light to draw out the poison, to neutralize it! No, Iliana don’t―”

Iliana drew in another shuddering breath, unable to deny her body the urge to act any longer. It felt like inhaling fire, an agonizing mixture of smoke and cinders. A small whimper was wrenched from the back of her throat, hoarse and pathetic.

_This isn’t how I want to go. Not like this. Not like this._

“Iliana, I need you to hold your breath for a bit while Nia tries to extract the poison. Can you do that?” 

That was definitely Tyril. She recognized the calm but stern cadence of his voice. Or at least she thought she did. As she replayed his words over and over in her head, doubt replaced her certainty. It was so hard to keep anything straight, to sort out the maelstrom of thoughts that hazed her mind. Iliana pressed her lips together and tried to nod to show that she understood and was trying to follow orders.

“Okay. Nia, try it again.”

“Are you sure―”

“No. She needs to,” someone interrupted, their voice afraid but steady. Authoritative. “She needs to keep breathing.”

 _Aerin._ Iliana’s chest ached at the sound of his voice, and not from the poison. Her fingers curled into the grass beneath her, the only bit of control she could exercise over her limbs as she tried and failed to reach for him.

“But the spores―”

“I know,” Aerin replied firmly. “That’s why she needs to breathe. To take them in.”

“What the hells are you talking about? Have you gone mad?” Definitely Mal.

“I think… No, I know of something that I can do. Just trust me.”

“Not in a million years!”

A frustrated growl, then, “Do you think I would risk this? Risk her? If I wanted her to die, I wouldn’t do anything but I clearly _don’t._ ”

“And how―”

 _“Just let him do it, you damned fool!”_ someone snarled. Imtura, without a doubt.

“Argh, fine! But if you―”

“Threaten me later,” Aerin snapped, his tone sharp and indomitable. The voice of a king. Iliana felt his arms gently slide beneath her shoulders and knees and lift her into his lap with surprising ease, which Iliana distantly noted was odd. Aerin was strong but not strong enough to be able to suddenly lift her as if she weighed nothing.

“Oh, hells,” Mal muttered although neither Aerin nor Iliana paid him any attention. Iliana tried in vain to clear her eyes enough to see Aerin above her, but just as before, she could only make out the barest details. The only difference was that the darkness of the night sky behind him was much more solid, much more oppressive than it had been before. 

_No, not the night sky,_ Iliana realized. _The Shadow._

She couldn’t stop herself from recoiling in fear. She felt Aerin tense beneath her.

When Aerin spoke, his voice was soft and soothing, the same tone she often used while charming beasts like the owlbear or baby drakna into submission. “I know it’s terrifying. Trust me, I know. But I’m going to help you. _It_ is going to help you. You just have to―”

For the first time, Aerin’s voice faltered, his breath catching in his throat. Iliana thought he almost said, _Trust me._

“You just have to let me do this, okay?” he murmured, his thumb brushing comfortingly against―her hand? Her shoulder? Iliana could not tell. Her senses were all blurred together. Her unsteady gaze wandered once more to the Shadow that licked off Aerin’s frame like fraying threads spun from smoke. Even though he hadn’t meant to ask her, Iliana had understood the silent question he had posed earlier that night. 

_Are you afraid of me now?_

Yes. Maybe. No. Never.

Admittedly, Iliana feared the Shadow. But she did not fear Aerin. And although he and the dark magic appeared to be intertwined, they were not the same thing. Aerin was in control, and Iliana was not afraid.

Through the pain and the cold darkness that was beginning to encroach on the edges of her vision, Iliana managed a nod.

“Okay,” Aerin affirmed, adjusting his hold on her. “When I tell you to breathe, breathe.”

Iliana weakly nodded again. She was starting to get lightheaded. She felt all fuzzy at the edges, like the threads that were keeping her tethered― _her Light_ ―were unspooling. She was being unmade.

The darkness swelled and built behind Aerin, solid and ominous. Instinctively, Iliana clenched her hands into fists once more, although this time, her fingers wrapped around something hot and familiar. Aerin’s hand. He was burning.

Aerin flipped his hand over so that her fingers lay in his palm and then squeezed them gently as he instructed, “Breathe. Deep breath in.”

Iliana sucked in a sharp breath. Her lungs stung as they took in the poisonous spores. It felt as if she suffered from a thousand little cuts, all peppered along the inner lining of her airways, and had just ingested boiling salt water. Her vision flared red from the pain and then―

 _Cold._ Iliana was met with a sensation that was so cold, it burned. The first thing she thought to compare it to was the freezing river water she had nearly drowned in years ago, but that wasn’t nearly brutal enough. No, this cold chilled her to the bone. It was the cold of the space between the stars, the cold of stolen light, an _absence_ of light. 

Aerin’s Shadow slipped past her lips, tasteless like a nearly intangible mist. It wove its way down her windpipe, invaded her lungs, then spread throughout her veins and capillaries, chasing down the poison that coursed through her bloodstream.

 _He’s neutralizing it,_ Iliana thought, just before her body began to blaze anew. She cried out, choking on smoke, and Aerin squeezed her hand tighter.

“I know,” he murmured soothingly. “I know.”

“What are you doing?” Mal demanded, his voice reedy and concerned. “You’re hurting her!”

Aerin shook his head. “I’m making her immune.”

There was a beat of silence, then Imtura muttered, “Gods, you _are_ mad. Brilliant, but mad.”

There was no mistaking the threads of admiration, consternation, and fascination that laced through her voice. Aerin huffed and Iliana felt his breath stir the stray strands of hair that fanned across her forehead. “Let’s see if this works first,” he mumbled, then dropped his voice so that only Iliana could hear. “You’re okay. It’s almost over.”

Iliana ground her teeth, squeezing Aerin’s hand so tight, his knuckles popped although he did not seem to mind or even notice. Every time she thought the pain had become manageable, it surpassed another threshold of new torment. 

Perhaps it was a bit ridiculous and naive, but Iliana had never thought dying would be so painful, or at least not in the ways she imagined it. It wasn’t often that she liked to ruminate on the possible ways she might go, but whenever she did, she thought she might go in battle, stuck down by blade, tooth, or claw. She had felt the wicked bite of all of those things and deemed it tolerable. If she was fortunate, she thought she might even go peacefully in her sleep, another lucky victim of old age. But she had never imagined she would be taken down by poison, much less a poison that infiltrated her defenses simply because she breathed.

Iliana did not know how long this seemingly endless cycle of agony dragged on for, but eventually, she felt the pain crest like a wave poised to crash. Iliana held onto Aerin even tighter as she waited for the tide to pull her under and never let her resurface.

But it never did. The wave subsided and withdrew, and with it, went the Shadow.

Iliana exhaled shakily as a natural warmth returned to her body, bringing along an all-consuming sense of exhaustion. Iliana went slack in Aerin’s arms, barely able to keep her eyes open as her hand released her death grip on his. It took a few moments for her to register that she was, in fact, _not_ dead. And not only was she not dead, but she was breathing―breathing in _spores_ ―and it did not kill her. 

Iliana dragged her gaze up to Aerin, who looked equally drained and relieved. Although his face was still concealed by the fabric wrap, Iliana saw that he had paled to something almost deathly. A bruise had already begun to form on his cheek from his brawl with Mal, blooming over the edges of the wool wrap. His hazel eyes, which were usually so sharp and clear were now clouded with something she could not discern. 

Her voice was a gravelly rasp. “How?”

“Inoculation.” It was not Aerin who answered but Imtura. At the sound of Imtura’s voice, Iliana swiveled her head to find her companions although she immediately regretted it. A wave of dizziness came over her, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut.

“You’ve built up an immunity to the poison,” Aerin explained as Iliana fought against the disorientation she felt. “Mithridatism is supposed to occur over the span of months but I used my magic to… speed up the process.”

Yes, she had overheard them speaking about the principle earlier that evening. Iliana nodded, replaying those words in her mind. 

“I’m…” Iliana focused on the feel of Aerin’s thighs beneath her, the grass brushing against her hands, and used that to ground herself. “Tired.”

When she opened her eyes again, she saw Aerin nod. “It’s okay,” he told her gently. “You can rest now.”

Iliana felt Aerin shift beneath her, his arms tightening around her legs and torso as he got to his feet. Through her exhaustion and the allure of a deep, peaceful sleep, Iliana noted that this time, it took a little more effort than it had before for Aerin to carry her.

Imtura stepped forward. “Here, let me―”

“No, I’ve got her,” Aerin refused, haltingly retreating toward one of the tents they had set up before supper. “I’ve got her.”

“Are you sure? I can―”

“Let him go, Immy,” Mal said, and although Iliana could not see him over Aerin’s shoulder, his voice sounded thick, as if he were having difficulty breathing through his nose. “Let them go.”

Apparently Aerin got a few good hits in. Iliana didn’t know whether to be angry or content with that. Mal had provoked Aerin and the things he had said were… not necessarily unjustified but certainly cruel. But Aerin, Iliana had never seen him so furious. Their fight was definitely something they would have to unpack and hopefully resolve, but just… not now. She’d address that later. Right now, she wanted to rest.

The sounds of the outdoors―the wind sifting through the fields, the crackling of the campfire, the low murmur of their companions’ voices―faded into unintelligible background noise as Aerin carried Iliana into a tent and gently laid her down on one of the bedrolls that had been set up. Iliana wasn’t even certain that this was her tent or her bedroll―she couldn’t remember who she was sleeping with that night, but assignments no longer mattered to her, not after she relaxed into the thin cushion and let her eyes finally close.

The last thing Iliana remembered before slipping into the sweet embrace of sleep was Aerin collapsing heavily beside her and the comforting weight of his arm wrapped around her shoulders, already heavy with the burden of unconsciousness.

* * *

_Aerin was home._

_He stood in the Great Hall of the Whitetower palace, staring at his father’s gilded throne, which sat empty atop the polished dais. He was waiting, but for what or whom, he did not yet know. Aerin turned in a slow circle as he gazed around the cavernous chamber, taking in the familiar marble pillars, purple tapestries, gauzy banners, and gilded staircase._

_How many hours had he spent in this hall, standing silently by his father’s side as they received guests and the common folk of Morella to hear their appeals and petitions? Baldur rarely made an appearance in courtly functions unless he could benefit from attending or it was a celebratory event. It had always been Aerin who helped his father, who observed the inner-workings of court and learned how to rule. As Aerin completed his rotation and his gaze fell once more on his father’s vacant throne, he felt a jagged shard of bitter resentment spike through him. He should be the one to ascend to the throne, to become king, not Baldur._

_As if in a trance, Aerin started up the stairs that led to his father’s throne. Each step he took felt like scaling a mountain—for all Aerin knew, a small eternity passed before he finally reached the top of the dais. He stared down at his father’s throne, so simple yet imposing at the same time, made of polished wood, gold filigree, and velvet that was the exact shade of spilled wine._

_Aerin was hyper-aware of the empty space that loomed to his right where his mother’s seat of power once sat. There were still scratches in the white marble floor, remnants of the day they had carried her throne away and stored it with the rest of her belongings in a forgotten wing of the palace._

_Aerin reached out, brushing his fingertips along the ornate arm of his father’s throne, feeling the delicate ridges of the carefully designed etchings. It should be his. One day, it would be. He would make sure of it._

_“Playing king, Prince Aerin?”_

_Aerin jerked his hand away as if he had been burned and whirled around. He felt something in his chest become brittle and jagged at the sight of Baldur standing at the foot of the dais, a smug expression on his haughty face—as usual. Aerin cleared his throat and straightened, folding his hands behind his back as he schooled his features to convey respect and patience, even though he stopped feeling either of those things a long time ago. “Hello, brother.”_

_Baldur merely sniffed. The proud uptilt of his chin was dismissive and somehow displayed all of the superiority he clearly believed he possessed. “Fantasizing about becoming Morella’s next ruler?”_

_Aerin’s hands tightened into fists behind his back. “Of course not. That is your destiny. You will make a fine king, I know it.”_

_“Hmph,” Baldur huffed. A certain gleam Aerin knew well appeared in Baldur’s eyes as he began to climb the stairs that led to the dais, each step laced with power and a threat. “You’d do well to remember that, little brother. In fact,” he said, gazing around the empty hall with mock curiosity. When he ascended that final step, he grinned and placed his hands on his Aerin’s shoulders. “I believe I have time to help drill that little fact into your skull.”_

_Aerin knew what was coming next, but he knew even better than to brace himself for it—let Baldur believe he caught him by surprise, let him stroke his own ego. The air left his lungs in a rush as Baldur drew back and slammed his fist into Aerin’s gut. Aerin barely had time to wheeze before his brother backhanded him across the face, one of his rings slicing a thin gash in his cheek._

_“Who is going to be king?” Baldur demanded, watching impassively as Aerin doubled over and held a hand to his stinging cheek. Baldur’s lip curled when his brother’s fingers came away wet with blood._

_Aerin kept his eyes on the ground in a display of deference. “You are.”_

_“Do you believe that?”_

_“Of course,” Aerin replied, slowly straightening although he let his shoulders sag—the perfect picture of defeat._

_Baldur’s smirk grew. “Do you_ despise _it?”_

_Aerin’s brows furrowed. “Of course not.”_

_“Not even a little bit?” he questioned, arching a brow._

_“No,” Aerin answered. “It is your birthright.”_

_Baldur scoffed, his face harsh and unforgiving. “That is something you would say. Unfortunately,_ I do not believe you.”

_He struck Aerin again, snapping his younger brother’s head back as his knuckles cracked against his jaw. Aerin stumbled back, his knees hitting the edge of the King’s throne. He braced his hands on the gilded arms, stopping himself from collapsing onto the velvet seat._

_“Sit on the throne, brother,” Baldur bit out, his face twisting into a mask of cruel fury. “See how it feels. Have a taste of that power,” he hissed, shoving Aerin’s shoulder. “You will never get another chance to do so.”_

_Aerin did not falter. He clenched his jaw, even as it throbbed, defiant. He would forever try to appease the Crown Prince, but Aerin refused to play into Baldur’s games. “No.”_

_“Yes,” Baldur ordered, shoving Aerin’s chest. Aerin’s knees buckled, but his arms held strong. “Sit.”_

_“It’s not mine,” he declared, a sharpness edging into his voice._

_“Nor will it ever be!” Baldur snarled, grabbing the collar of Aerin’s tunic and hurling him back into the gilded chair. This time, Aerin could not resist. The polished wood of the throne groaned beneath his weight and Baldur’s force. Aerin could not stop the wounded noise that escaped his lips as the crown of his head struck the solid back of the chair._

_Baldur planted his hand against the back of the throne and leaned over Aerin, bringing his face right before his brother’s. “Who is going to be king, little brother?”_

_Before Aerin could respond, Baldur’s hand wrapped around his throat, cutting off his air. Alarm flooded Aerin, his body jerking in fear but Baldur held him down. His brother had never been so violent, had never laid a hand on his throat before. Aerin was terrified and he despised that more than anything._

_Aerin’s hands clenched into fists again, and this time, there was something solid and cool in the palm of his right hand._

_His heart jumped in his chest, even as his lungs began to burn. Aerin immediately knew what this was—he could never forget the way it felt to wield it, to use it. But it did not belong here._

_Baldur’s fingers tightened around Aerin’s throat, his grip ruthless. Black spots began to swarm at the edges of Aerin’s vision as his lungs begged for oxygen. Aerin thrashed, his legs kicking out in a desperate attempt to break free, but Baldur used all of his weight to keep him pinned. That_ thing _in his hand hummed, begging to be used, and Aerin’s blood sang in response._

 _“You know our people would never follow you,” he sneered, breath hot on Aerin’s face. “You are weak and cowardly. Dishonest and disloyal. You are a traitor and a_ murderer. _So let me ask you again, who is going to be king?”_

_This time, Baldur loosened his grip just enough for Aerin to be able to respond. He smiled coldly, gaze expectant as he raised his eyebrows._

_Aerin’s fingers tightened around the hilt as he snarled, “Not you.”_

_Aerin rotated his wrist and cleaved the Blade of Shadow into Baldur’s side. Aerin felt his brother’s blood, hot and thick, spill across his legs as the Crown Prince stumbled back, hazel eyes wide with shock. Baldur dropped to his knees just as Aerin shoved himself to his feet and wrenched the blade free of Baldur’s midsection in a spray of gore._

_As Aerin towered over him, he saw flashes of another event, a_ real _event—a memory._

 **_Aerin stood in the throne room at the foot of the dais, surrounded by enemies who once thought him their friend, their faces twisted into expressions of horror, anger, and_ ** _—_ **_fear. Oh yes, fear. He could smell it in the air, could feel it fueling his own resolve as he stared down the Crown Prince of Morella, Aerin’s older brother, his tormentor_ ** _—_

**_“I am so glad you came, dear brother. I did need blood for this ritual… And I think yours will do nicely.”_ **

_—_ **_and he drove the blade into Baldur’s chest._ **

_Aerin stepped towards his brother, who fell back onto his elbows in fear._

_“Please,” Baldur rasped, his hands pressed into his side to staunch the bleeding. His eyes were wide with terror. “Please don’t.”_

This isn’t real, _Aerin thought, his grip on the Onyx hilt loosening._ What’s done is done. He is already gone.

 _Aerin’s chest ached as he took in his brother’s paling face, the river of crimson that flowed down the white marble stairs_ ― _his lifeblood._

What’s done is done, _another voice echoed._ But does it matter? He deserves a thousand deaths. Just one would be a mercy.

_Aerin heaved in a deep breath, smelling the ichor in the air, tasting its coppery tang on his tongue. Then he let out a savage cry and gripped the Blade of Shadow in both hands before stabbing down, straight into his brother’s heart._

_As Aerin knelt beside him, Baldur gurgled once, blood splattering Aerin’s cheek as his eyelashes fluttered. Then, he went still._

_Aerin stayed there for a few moments, panting as he stared at Baldur’s pale, lifeless corpse. It took an immense amount of effort for him to unfurl his fingers from the Onyx hilt. They felt stiff and cold, as if some of his own life had leached from his veins when he took his brother’s._

_Aerin sat back, trying to sort out his own feelings. He should be glad it was over, that his pain had come to an end. He had done this before, had been strong enough to end the years of pain and torment on his own. But this time, there was no sinister voice to commend him or to fill the hollow silence that howled through the cracks of his fracturing soul. Instead, there was only disbelief and a sick, twisted feeling in his gut._

_“Oh, sweet boy,” someone said softly. “You’ve gotten blood all over your face.”_

_Aerin looked up. His voice broke as he rasped, “Mother?”_

_“I know how much you hate blood. You have such a gentle soul, Aerin, and the world is too cruel.” The Queen crouched beside him, using her thumb to wipe the ichor from his cheek. For a moment, Aerin found himself leaning into her touch before he abruptly jerked upright, eyes flitting to where his brother laid._

_But Baldur was not there. The throne room… was not there._

_Aerin was in the forest, surrounded by the majestic heartoak trees that grew around Whitetower. He felt the sun beating down on him through the shifting canopy, causing the thick riding clothes to stick to his sweaty skin. Aerin smelled soil, fresh moss, and—_

_Aerin looked down at the mangled body sprawled out on the ground before him and scrambled back, bile rising in his throat and spilling over his lips before he could stop it._

_The Queen, his mother…_

_Oh, gods._

**_“There’s been a horrible accident, my boy,” Aerin heard his father say from somewhere nearby although he could not find him. “Your mother—we found her horse and then_ ** _—”_

 _Aerin could not think straight. All he could do was stare at what remained of his mother and listen to his own ragged breathing, which was loud and uneven in his own ears._ You were supposed to be the one who escaped, who got away… 

_Aerin squeezed his eyes shut and bowed over his knees, unable to look at the gruesome sight before him. Gradually, his breathing evened out and the stench of gore and decay dissipated like mist on the wind._

It’s not real, _he told himself._ It’s not real. There was no hunting accident. She got away. She lived.

How do you know that? _a voice that was like his but also undeniably_ Other _questioned._ The Khagan could have lied but you will never know the truth because you ran away like a coward. Like you always do.

_“No,” Aerin whispered, shaking his head as he clapped his hands over his ears. “No. It’s not like that. I had to run. The others—my friends—”_

Your friends? _the voice parroted, amused and bitter._ What friends? These ones?

_Aerin’s eyes fluttered open. He was no longer in the heartoak forest but kneeling in the poison fields beyond Vishanti. His companions towered over him in a loose semi-circle, their faces livid, anguished, and pained behind the wool that concealed their mouths and noses._

_“What have you done?” Imtura demanded, flaxen eyes alight with wrath, even as tears streamed down her blotchy skin. “_ What have you done?”

_“Murderer!” Nia sobbed, clinging to Tyril’s arm as her knees buckled beneath the weight of her distress. “We trusted you!”_

_What? No…_

_Aerin looked down at his lap and let out a wretched sob. Iliana was sprawled across his legs, her body as cold as ice. Her skin, which was once a wondrous shade of blue—Aerin’s new favorite, truthfully—was now ash grey and her veins were as black as pitch. And her eyes, those luminous emerald eyes, were dull, glossy, and unseeing as they stared up at the starless sky._

_She was dead._

_“No,” Aerin breathed, shaking his head as his fingers fluttered helplessly over her forehead, brushing away stray strands of hair. “No… I was just trying to help! I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean for her…”_

_Aerin didn’t know if he was choking or sobbing as he bowed over Iliana, feeling as if his heart had been shattered into jagged shards of dark obsidian. The only thing that roused him from his despair was the sound of footsteps and the kiss of metal against the back of his neck, just above the notches of his spine._

_Aerin opened his eyes and stared at the ground, frozen in place._

_“You know what this is,” Tyril said coldly from behind him, his voice sending chills down Aerin’s spine. His sword was lifted from Aerin’s neck. “It is time you faced justice. I will be swift.”_

_Justice… Aerin no longer knew what that word meant, only that he deserved it._

_Aerin closed his eyes and nodded. There was a sharp intake of breath, a rush of wind, the whistle of a blade, and then—_

_Aerin was no more._

* * *

Aerin awoke, clutching at his neck.

He panted, staring into the darkness of the tent as his eyes adjusted and he struggled to reorient himself in his new surroundings, his new reality. As Aerin’s mind caught up and realized that he was no longer asleep, that everything else had been a nightmare. Gradually, Aerin became aware of the warm body pressed against his, anchoring him to this plane. 

Iliana slept peacefully on her side next to him, her head resting atop the crook of her folded elbow, dark lashes fanned across the tops of her full cheeks. Her lips were slightly parted and small, even puffs of air escaped her nostrils. Aerin startled slightly when he realized that her mouth and nose were uncovered but quickly remembered that she was now immune to the poisonous spores. Thanks to him. But then again, it was also _because_ of him that she needed to become immune.

Aerin’s drifted down to his other arm, which was still slung around Iliana’s shoulders, holding her to him. He swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat, ignoring the way his chest seemed to swell just at the sight of her, safe and whole beside him, and pulled his arm away. 

Aerin rolled onto his back and stared at the top of the tent for a few long moments before he sighed and pushed himself up to a seated position, tangling his fingers in his curls as he bowed over his knees. Tonight was… a lot. Physically, Aerin was still exhausted. And yet, every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of one of the horrors he had witnessed tonight, real and imaginary. No, he would not be going back to sleep any time soon.

Aerin folded his arms across his knees and rested his chin atop them as he looked over at Iliana, who mumbled something unintelligible, then rolled onto her stomach, hiding her face in her arm. Aerin felt his lip quirk ever so slightly. Aerin took a deep, steadying breath, smelling the sickly sweet aroma of the toxic flora that surrounded them and beneath that, the campfire. He glanced toward the entrance to the tent and noticed for the first time that there was a subtle, orangish glow permeating through the canvas. Someone was still awake.

Aerin’s eyes flicked back and forth between the tent opening and Iliana. He would have loved nothing more than to curl up beside her and fall into a dreamless sleep, but he needed to talk. About what, he was not sure―anything, he supposed. He just needed something to fill the haunting void that stretched on inside his head. He didn’t like the idea of waking Iliana up, so Aerin crossed his fingers and hoped that whoever was outside was in the mood for conversation.

Aerin retrieved his leather pack from where it sat near the entrance to the tent and withdrew a thick wool blanket. He had been so weary when he brought Iliana in here, he hadn’t even thought to grab it before he succumbed to sleep. Gently, Aerin draped it over her, tucking in the edges before he got to his feet and quietly slipped outside.

He couldn’t stop himself from groaning internally when he saw who sat out by the dying campfire. _Oh, great._

“Oh. I didn’t expect you to be up any time soon,” Mal said awkwardly from where he sat on the ground in front of the fire, turning one of his knives over in his hands. He coughed and cleared his throat. “You, uh, looked pretty tired when you left earlier.”

 _Gods, does he ever put those things down?_ Aerin wondered as he eyed Mal’s signature daggers, his lips pressed into a dissatisfied line. _Who is he showing off for?_ he thought bitterly. But then, he remembered how Iliana twisted his ring around her thumb whenever she was worried or deep in thought, when she thought he wasn’t looking. _Maybe it’s just a habit._

Aerin wondered what kind of life one had to live in order to develop casually twirling knives around as a habit. 

Aerin looked up at the sky, a broad expanse of obsidian inlaid with flecks of diamond―dawn was still a long ways away. Then he looked back at the tent he’d just emerged from, contemplating whether or not he should turn back around and resign himself to sitting in stubborn silence. Aerin sighed and seated himself by the fire, folding his knees to his chest. “Had trouble sleeping.”

“Yeah,” Mal mumbled, staring into the fire as he idly dragged the tip of his blade through the dirt. “Me too. That’s why I took watch.” He nodded his chin toward Aerin’s tent. “Is she…?”

Aerin knew what Mal was asking without needing him to say so. “She’s okay, just sleeping. We didn’t―” 

_Didn’t what? Kill her? Damage her beyond repair?_

Aerin shook his head, staring hard at the ground. “We didn’t. She’s okay.”

Mal nodded at this, some of the stiffness abandoning his shoulders as he slumped. His relief was evidently short-lived as his face became troubled once more. “ _‘We’,_ ” he repeated, brows knitting together. “I’ve been wondering about that. Which one of us actually did it.”

Aerin tilted his head, carefully searching Mal’s face as he asked, “Does it really matter?”

The skin around Mal’s lips tightened as his expression darkened, although Aerin suspected that for once, he was not at the heart of the thief’s anger. “No,” Mal decided after a few moments. “I suppose not.”

How could it, when they were both equally responsible for what happened? Regardless of whose fingers actually ripped away Iliana’s wrap, it was their fighting that forced her to get involved.

Aerin hummed in agreement, tearing his gaze away to stare out at the fields, which were bleached of their vibrant color in the moonlight. How was it possible that something so beautiful as a bunch of flowers could be so deadly? The logical side of Aerin reminded him that the most magnificent beings were almost always the most lethal. In fact, it was their striking appearance that made them so effectively dangerous―it distracted and deceived their prey, the purest form of treachery in nature.

But Aerin did not want to think logically. For a moment, he just wanted to despise the world and all of its clever deceptions. But then he reminded himself that he was no better. The pot calling the kettle black.

Aerin turned back to Mal, eyeing the reddish-brown splotches that stained the fabric around Mal’s nose. Aerin wondered if he had broken it, then questioned if he would have felt any remorse if he did. He did not know the answer to that. Nevertheless, he offered up an apology. It couldn’t fix things, but it certainly could not make them any worse either.

“I’m sorry about your nose,” Aerin told Mal, nodding in his direction and trying to sound as sincere as possible.

To his surprise, Mal shook his head. “You shouldn’t be. I know I deserved it.”

Aerin’s brows rose in disbelief before he could stop them. Mal caught his nonplussed expression and sighed, staking his knife into the ground.

“I was an ass,” Mal admitted, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “The old ladies back at the orphanage would have washed my mouth out with soap for the things I said to you.”

Aerin frowned, both at Mal’s confounding statement and the admission about his past. Aerin had no idea Mal grew up in an orphanage―one of Whitetower’s, he assumed. In fact, Aerin realized just how little he knew about the Whitetower Reaper’s origins. He had never thought to ask, had never thought that he had a _right_ to ask. He shook his head, puzzled. “But… you were right. The things you said, they were true.”

 _There’s the fact that you are a notorious liar and schemer. You deceived us about―how many times now? First, you led us to believe that you’re a good but weak prince―actually, maybe that last bit_ was _the truth… You’re also a_ murderer. _You showed your true colors that day in Whitetower, Your Highness._

Mal’s head lolled to one side, then the other as he gazed upward. “Some things were true, some things weren’t. But even if they all were, that doesn’t mean I should have said them.”

Aerin’s frown only deepened as he looked down at his hands. He thought of how they had looked only hours ago, lined with veins of ebony as he called upon the Shadow once more. What did Mal mean? That he shouldn’t have said what he did? It was the truth, after all. And the truth was what Aerin had needed to hear, especially when it hurt.

Aerin looked up, meeting Mal’s gaze, unflinching. “Why do you hate me?”

It was not often that Aerin was so blunt, but he feared he had to be, lest he lose his nerve to ask what he wanted― _needed_ ―to know. Mal’s face slackened, clearly taken aback by Aerin’s direct question, but then his brows lowered and he let out another sigh, glancing away.

“The thing is,” Mal confessed, yanking his dagger from the ground and holding it up, catching his own reflection in its gleaming surface. “I don’t. Hate you, that is. I mean I did, but… I don’t know if I hated you more because of what you did or who you are.”

“What do you mean?” Aerin did not understand a lick of what Mal was saying. His father had always said that a man _was_ his actions, that what he did defined what he was. And Aerin’s actions made him exactly what Mal said he was: a liar and killer.

“Well, I despised you for everything you did to us. Betraying us, kidnapping―you know what? Let’s not get into that,” Mal muttered shaking his head as he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I loathed you for what you did to us, but beyond that, I absolutely hated you because you are―were?―a prince.”

“You hate me because I am a prince,” Aerin stated, brows furrowed. _Am? Was?_ Aerin wasn’t entirely sure either. His father had never officially disowned or stricken him from the Valleros line―the king had not even spoken to Aerin after sentencing him to the cells, and even that had been for an indeterminate amount of time. And Imtura was right―the king had not yet declared who his new heir was, which technically meant… Aerin banished those thoughts from his mind. There was no use in thinking of such things now.

“Amongst those other things, yes,” Mal replied dryly, the corners of his eyes crinkling at his failed attempt to jest. When he saw that Aerin did not so much as raise his brows in amusement, he cleared his throat and tugged at the collar of his tunic. “What I’m trying to say, Prince Aerin, is that you are living embodiment of everything I grew up hating. The nobility, the rich, the privileged, and so on.”

Aerin’s lips parted. “But why?”

Mal’s face suddenly turned hard. “Because you forgot about us,” he said coldly, dark brown eyes glinting in the firelight. “Your people. The poor, the sick, and the hungry. People like me, people like _my mother_ wasted away in the Nooks and Crannies, right beneath your noses. You had your galas and your soirees while citizens of Whitetower groveled for food, while children like me got wrapped up in operations like the Thieves Guild or worse, just to survive.”

Oh. _Oh._ It all made sense now.

_Hate to break it to you, princeling, but I’m gonna give it to you square. Your guards have been taking advantage of people like this for years… So take a good, long look at what your people have been going through while you royals look the other way._

“I…” Aerin did not know what to say. He wished he could tell Mal that he did not know about the Nooks and Crannies, but he did. He wanted to say that if he could have done something to help, he would have. 

But what did ifs, could haves, and would haves mean to the man who had suffered due to his family’s deliberate ignorance?

“I am sorry,” Aerin said, and this time, he truly meant it. “I am sorry we contented ourselves with forgetting about you while we lived in splendor and consumed in excess. That is _wrong_ and I knew that. I always did. I petitioned my father and brother to grant relief funds for the Nooks and Crannies, but I should have done more. I should have tried harder to get the motion passed. I should have gone into the Nooks and Crannies with carts laden with food and gold coin, consequences be damned. But I didn’t. And for that, I deeply apologize, whatever that means to you.”

Mal’s brows pulled together. “I didn’t know that you cared. That you even knew about us.”

Aerin shook his head, his voice earnest. “It is true that I did not know about how bad things were with the city guard, but I learned about the Nooks and Crannies a long time ago. Too long ago.” He ground his teeth, staring down at his hands in his lap, turning them so that his palms faced upward. He could imagine them wreathed in the Shadow, grey and lifeless. 

“Nobody knows about my family’s legacy of lies and ignorance and corruption better than I do. I truly wanted to fix it, to fix Morella. That’s why I…” Aerin trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut as he curled his fingers back into his palms. “I was trying to make everything better for everyone. I know that does not excuse my actions, but I just want you to know why I did it, why I joined them. Somewhere in the midst of everything, I―”

“Lost your way?” Mal offered and Aerin opened his eyes, nodding slowly. Mal sighed, combing his fingers through his hair. “Maybe you were doomed to lose from the start.”

“What do you mean?”

Mal shrugged, testing the tip of his dagger with his fingertip as he wondered aloud. “Maybe there’s no way to keep your head on straight in any deal with the Shadow Court. Maybe you can’t have that sort of power without being corrupted. Maybe that’s the nature of the magic. It’s meant to corrupt.” He threw up his hands. “I don’t know, this hokey pokey stuff isn’t my specialty.”

“But I guess what I’m thinking is how could you have known?” Mal questioned, tilting his head as he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “You were just a kid when the Dreadlord got in your head, yeah? And not only were you a kid, but you were a _desperate_ kid who needed to get out of a bad situation. And the Dreadlord comes in with all of these perfect promises and solutions, but none of the warnings.” 

Mal shrugged again and Aerin noticed that there was a rueful gleam in his eyes. “I’d be lying if I said that I hadn’t made my fair share of bad deals to get what I wanted or needed. When I joined the Guild, I had no idea what kind of trouble it would give me. I was just a kid,” he said, shaking his head. “And so were you.”

“Does it really matter?” Aerin asked, echoing their earlier conversation. Did it matter if he was just a child when the Dreadlord began to weed his way into his mind? Aerin was fully grown when he schemed to betray the party and when he drove that sword through his brother’s heart. It had been his decision to move forward, regardless of the pressure that was placed on him to do so. He had to take accountability for his actions. That was why he had been returned to the Light Realm, wasn’t it? To come to terms with what he had done and atone. How could even hope to start over if he could not take responsibility for his own sins?

“I don’t know,” Mal answered honestly, sheathing his blade at his side. “But maybe it should.” 

Aerin did not know what to say to that, either.

Mal shifted, idly fiddling with the leather strap that held his shoulder plate in place. “Just so you know, I believe you. What you said about always wanting to make everything better in Morella, I believe it.”

Aerin shook his head, dropping his gaze to the ground as his chest began to ache. Somehow, Mal’s support almost hurt more than his criticism. “It doesn’t matter,” Aerin stated roughly. “I failed. I only made things worse.”

“Well, it matters to me,” Mal replied, and the sincerity of his tone made Aerin flinch. “Yeah, you failed. Big time. But no one else has even tried. So it matters. I won’t forget that.”

Aerin hesitantly met Mal’s gaze, and in it, he saw that he truly meant everything he said. Aerin’s voice was barely more than a hoarse rasp although his words were no less genuine as he said thickly, “Thank you.”

Mal lifted a brow as if he found Aerin’s gratitude puzzling, but he nodded nonetheless. “Yeah. Sure thing.”

They sat in silence for a long while, staring at the dwindling campfire, and Aerin was somewhat pleased to note that it was neither awkward nor was it weighed down by a hidden cache of things left unsaid, grievances that were still unaired. It seemed as if for now, Mal and Aerin had gotten everything they needed to say out in the open.

Aerin did not know how long they sat there before a sudden chill came over him. The fire had nearly burned itself out and the night was still far from over. Aerin cleared his throat, drawing Mal’s attention once more. 

“Are we… okay?” he asked hesitantly, curling his fingers into the sleeves of his fur-lined clothes.

Mal huffed. “If by ‘okay’ you mean that I won’t verbally or physically attack you, then yes, we are okay. As long as you’re going to do the same.”

Aerin allowed himself a dry smile even though Mal could not see it. “You have my word.”

“Your word, huh?” Mal’s eyes glittered with wry amusement. “Well, that seemed to be enough for Immy. There’s a lot that could go wrong with expecting people to mean everything they say. Never would have pegged the orcs for idealists, but well, maybe that’s what we need right now. A bunch of idealists.” He shrugged gazing southward, toward home. For a moment, Aerin thought Mal almost looked wistful as he quietly added, “I’d like to live in a world where a promise is enough.”

Aerin could agree with that. He nodded. “A better world.”

“Yeah,” he replied softly, still gazing toward the Vishanti mountains and the invisible homeland that lay beyond. “A better world.”

Mal shook himself out of his daze and turned his attention back onto Aerin. “Maybe I shouldn’t do this and maybe this’ll bite me in the ass later but…” Mal took a deep breath “You’ve got my trust, prince. At least a little bit. A smidgeon really. I wouldn’t call it a victory or anything.”

At that, Aerin grinned, his smile full and unabashed. He dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “I will take what I can get.”

As another silence lapsed between them, Aerin found himself wondering if they would ever get to see this better world they had unknowingly begun to dream of. He hoped so.

“Hey,” Mal said suddenly, rousing Aerin from his thoughts.

Aerin glanced over, a brow raised. “Hm?”

 _Oh, no._ He knew that look. His own brother had worn a similar one every time he launched into a ridiculously raunchy story, although Mal’s was different. While the lines of Baldur’s face had almost only ever held arrogance, Mal’s were filled with humor and roguish charm.

Behind the cloth, Mal grinned, his brows arching devilishly and eyes glinting playfully in the firelight. “Have I ever told you about the time I swiped a priceless piece of jewelry right off the neck of a contessa?”

 _Oh, gods._ Aerin imagined that if Iliana were awake, she would have groaned. Just the thought of that made his own smile broaden. He shook his head, reclining back on his elbows as he lazily waved his hand. “Go on.”

As Mal launched into an absolutely absurd tale that involved a sapphire necklace, a coquettish countess, and a rigged card game, Aerin felt a wave of contentment wash over him, seeping into cracks of his jagged soul. He marveled at how only mere hours ago, he and Mal had been at each other’s throats, snarling like the Vishanti wolves.

When the first laugh bubbled out of him, brazen and untamed and _real_ , Aerin wondered if perhaps it was not yet too late for him to fix his broken kingdom and undo the wrongdoings afflicted upon it by the Shadow Court, by the Dreadlord, by himself, and by all of the Valleros rulers that had come before him.

He would certainly like to try.


	19. Under Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't run forever.

When Iliana woke, she was alone.

She blinked against the darkness of the tent and reached out, finding only empty space and a faint impression in the bedroll where Aerin had once been―because he  _ had  _ been there, hadn’t he? Iliana sat up, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands as she recalled everything that had happened before she drifted into unconsciousness. She remembered Aerin carrying her into the tent and laying her down before collapsing beside her himself, exhausted. Exhausted because… because―

Iliana brushed her fingers over her lips. They were bare, and she was breathing―freely. 

_ I’m making her immune. _

Iliana looked down at the backs of her hands and flexed her fingers, watching the knuckles bend and tendons flex. Her skin there was smooth and unblemished, devoid of the blisters or irritated splotches of red that had marred it when they first entered the poison fields. The veins that lined the insides of her wrists were dark but naturally so, a perfect picture of vitality and vascularity. 

She rolled her shoulders, remembering the debilitating fear she felt when she was unable to move her own limbs, the pain from the poison and Shadow stealing her motor control. There was a slight ache in her muscles, but Iliana preferred to have felt it than feel nothing at all. She took a moment to simply appreciate the parts of her that were supposed to work and  _ did _ . She had a body that was built in the right way and she’d nearly lost it.

Iliana’s fingers trembled with that revelation. Everything that she was, everything that she had ever been, almost disappeared. She had almost unraveled. Death had never been so close and Iliana had never been so afraid.

She squeezed her eyes shut and curled her fingers into her palms to quell the shaking.  _ You’re okay. You’re here and you’re alive. That’s all that matters now. _

_ Alive. _ A rush went through her at that. Her heart began to race, beating faster and harder, as if excited by the simple reminder that it could still do so.

_ “Night, prince.” _

Was that… Mal?

Iliana opened her eyes and looked up just in time to see the canvas flaps to her tent be pulled aside. Aerin appeared through the entryway, body angled as he looked over his shoulder. Iliana could see the apples of his cheeks round in what might have been a smile.

“Goodnight, thief,” Aerin bid the other man and Iliana could have sworn she heard Mal laugh. Aerin turned, ducked inside, and halted in his tracks.

Weak light caught on his pale features, streaming through the tent flap and the small tears that were peppered in the weathered canvas. He was all edges and angles, skin stretched taut over delicately sculpted bone. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair was tousled as if he had spent the last hour or so tugging at it, but Iliana had never been more thrilled to see him. She even felt…  _ nervous. _

Iliana fisted her hands into the fabric of her pants. She wanted to reach for him, to tangle her fingers into his clothes and pull him as close as possible. She wanted to affirm that this was real, that he was real, that  _ she _ was real. But Iliana was not quite sure if any of that was allowed. Instead, she offered him a small smile that she hoped did not convey the sudden nerves she felt at the sight of him.

Aerin’s expression softened and Iliana felt her heart hammer almost painfully against her ribcage as he whispered “Hi.”

It was so simple and understated, she wanted to burst into laughter. She grinned, unable to help herself. “Hi.”

A whirlwind of emotions seemed to flurry across Aerin’s face, all of them passing too quickly for Iliana to identify a single one of them. Iliana felt as if she had just swallowed a horde of lightning bugs and they were now zipping around her stomach, mirroring her own anxiety in their frantic movements as Aerin kneeled before her and took her hand between his.

Iliana’s breath quickened and she felt like she was tingling everywhere Aerin touched her, her belly flipping at the slightest contact.  _ Gods _ , why was she suddenly so nervous, so hyper-aware of every little thing he did? Something in her had awakened, had come alive when she saw him. Was this some sort of side effect of having a near-death experience or this newly granted immunity? 

_ You know it’s not, _ she told herself.  _ It’s just him. _

“How do you feel?” he asked gently, although Iliana was too distracted to reply. Iliana marveled at the way his skin felt against hers as she adjusted their hands so  that they were pressed together, palm to palm, fingertips to fingertips. There were new callouses that she had not noticed earlier when they were dancing. She brushed her fingertips against them, skimming over the knobs of his knuckles, feeling the strong bone beneath as she interlaced their fingers. Something in her blood warmed as he returned the gesture.

“Iliana?”  Aerin prompted her, his voice barely more than a whisper. 

She dragged her emerald eyes up to his and was momentarily floored by the warmth in his gaze, so gentle, inviting, and full of concern and some sort of emotion she could not name. Hope? Or something even more dangerous?

Iliana drew in a long breath between her lips, just because she could. Because of him, she could. 

_ How do you feel?  _ he had asked. Iliana could not even find the words.  _ Wonderful. Good. Tired. Wide-awake. Happy. Healthy. Alive. _

Iliana’s grip tightened around Aerin’s hand and she tugged him forward into a bone-crushing embrace. She laid her head against his shoulder, breath ghosting over the tender flesh of his neck as she whispered,  _ “Thank you.” _

Aerin knew what she meant. He always did.

Her arms, strong and lean, wrapped around him like a vise, popping his joints and cracking bone. But Aerin did not seem to mind in the slightest. He held her to him just as desperately, burying his face in her hair. He shook his head, his voice a low rumble near her ear. “I am sorry.”

Iliana’s heart seized in her chest and she closed her eyes. “I know.”

She did.

Iliana could not recall a time she had ever seen Aerin as furious and vengeful as he was earlier that night. Although she could not find it in herself to hold his anger against him, even if it had ultimately put her own life in jeopardy because in the end, she completely understood his fury―just as she understood Mal’s. Was their brawl ridiculous and childish? Absolutely. But it had been a brief lapse of judgment for both of them, an interlude in which their tempers had slipped free of their leashes. Tonight, their worst nature had shone through but Iliana could not judge them for that. 

She thought of all the times she had been reckless and awful and cruel. Kade had witnessed all of her faults, all of her shortcomings―and there were many of them―but he had never turned her away. Iliana felt that she owed to her friends to exhibit the same level of understanding her brother had shown her. And more than that, sometimes, it was just easier to forgive, especially when she could tell just by looking at Aerin that he harbored more than enough regret already. She had no doubt Mal felt the same.

“Iliana,” Aerin said again and the low, raspy timbre of his voice made her shiver. She was so used to his careful composure, his dry wit, his avid curiosity, his gentle musings. But  _ this _ , the longing and desperation that he had somehow managed to lace into that single word―her name―stirred something within her.

Iliana drew back, ready to pull away at last when Aerin’s arms stopped her. She lifted her head, brows raised in question, and felt her breath catch in her throat at his close proximity. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin through the wool fabric, which just barely grazed the edge of her jaw.

Iliana reached up, running her fingers along the edge of the material where it folded against the bruised plane of Aerin’s cheek. She pinched the fabric but did not pull it away despite how badly she wanted to see him, all of him, once more. How unbelievably cruel it was that she could not even gaze upon his face.

She thought of the last time they had been alone like this, back in the mountains of Vishanti. That was where she had drawn the line between them, had insisted that they needed to stay focused. Iliana was pretty damn sure they had failed at that, horribly. But looking at him now, Iliana didn’t care. She knew that she could not stay away. 

There were many things she wanted at that moment. For one, she wished there was light if only so that she could see Aerin better. She wanted to know the exact shade of gold that streaked through his hazel eyes, wanted to see the way his pupils dilated when she ran her fingers above his eyebrow, sweeping a curl aside. For another thing, she wanted to be out these damned poison fields, if only so―

Iliana leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his as she confessed, “I wish I could kiss you.”

Aerin sucked in a sharp breath and Iliana felt his chest swell against hers. His fingers flexed against her back. “That might kill me.”

That drew a rueful smile from her. Aerin could probably use the Shadow to make himself immune but they both knew how much it had exhausted him. The last thing Iliana wanted was for Aerin to drain himself and endure all of the pain she had just for a reckless dalliance, assuming he even retained consciousness.

Iliana laid her hands on the front of his chest, smoothing over the supple material of his doublet, fingertips fluttering against the column of his neck. “Not worth it then.”

Aerin’s throat bobbed and he shook his head ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Iliana grinned and her heart stuttered in her chest when Aerin tentatively mirrored her expression, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Her gaze flicked between his eyes, then dropped down to his throat, drinking the sight of any skin that was left exposed. She had noticed when he first entered the tent, but up close, Iliana could not help but realize just how pale he was, despite all of the hours they have spent under the sun. She bit the inside of her cheek as she dragged her gaze up to meet his stare once more. She wanted to make him blush.

Iliana was not entirely sure what sort of expression her features had arranged themselves into, but whatever it was made Aerin’s brows lift. “What are you thinking about?”

In response, Iliana pushed lightly against his chest, pleased to note that he went pliant beneath her touch, going wherever she guided him. Aerin sat back on his bedroll, legs splayed out before him. His fingers tightened in the back of Iliana’s tunic as she came closer, planting her knees on either side of his hips and settling herself in his lap.

Iliana’s hands fussed with the collar of his doublet, pulling it back and smoothing it down as she murmured, “You.”

For a moment, he almost looked wounded, as if the intensity of her affection was the tip of a blade he could not bear. Iliana watched Aerin’s throat bob, Adam’s apple dipping low into the cradle of his collarbone. She wanted to catch it between her teeth.

Iliana could not explain it, the sudden urge to abandon all pretense and empty notions of self-restraint. Perhaps she had caught some sort of second wind that made her just a bit careless after her brush with death, but Iliana wanted to feel Aerin’s skin against hers, steal some of his warmth for herself. But she could not have him in all of the ways she wanted to, not here, not now. When she did,  _ if _ she ever did, it would be somewhere warm and, most importantly, safe, where she could lay Aerin down and not worry about rocks digging into his spine or, at the very least, poisonous air finding its way into his lungs.

Iliana leaned in and a shiver of delight rolled down her spine as Aerin did as well, eyes fluttering shut as he tilted his face up toward hers like a saint offering himself to the gods. And if  _ that _ wasn’t one of the loveliest things she had ever seen… 

Iliana snaked her fingers around the back of his neck to tangle themselves in the curls that fell across the top of his collar. Aerin sighed against her as she kissed his temple, the edge of his brow, then the top of his cheekbone. He winced slightly as her lips pressed into the dark bruise that had blossomed there but when Iliana moved to pull away, to apologize, Aerin followed, leaning into her touch like a man starved for it.

A small noise sounded at the back Aerin’s throat that was a cross between a gasp and a hum when Iliana’s fingers tightened in his hair, tilting his head back as she ran her lips along the scalpel-sharp line of his jaw, then down the pillar of his neck. But even more fascinating than that sound was the one he made when she kissed him, sealing her lips over his pulse.

Aerin sighed into the quiet darkness of their tent as she worked her mouth over his skin, his fingers pressing into the notches of her spine with such a fervor, Iliana wondered if she might find his prints there in the morning. A small part of her hoped that she would. 

Forgetting herself, Iliana rocked her hips once against his as she mouthed along the ridge of his collarbone and Aerin’s eyes fluttered open, his voice raw and hoarse.  _ “Iliana.” _

The sound of her name drew Iliana out of stupor the taste of his skin had put her in.

Gods, what was wrong with her? This was a prince and here she was, sitting in his lap slobbering all over his neck like some kind of mad dog. Mortified, Iliana moved to pull away when one of Aerin’s hands slid up to cradle the back of her head, holding her there.

Iliana looked up at him, questioning, and― _ oh, yes, _ there was that blush. It crept up his neck, disappeared beneath the wool wrap, and reappeared, blooming across the apples of his cheeks. It was a captivating shade of red that reminded Iliana of the fire lilies that oddly enough only bloomed during winter in the snowy fields that surrounded Riverbend. 

Aerin’s eyes were mere slivers of hazel as he gazed down at her through his lashes, his face still tilted upward and neck arched in a tantalizing display. “Don’t…”

Iliana understood his request loud and clear.  _ Don’t go. _

Iliana dipped her head once more, all too willing to oblige him, especially when he was looking at her like that. As she brushed her lips along his neck, Aerin wove his slender fingers into her dark hair, holding her close as her breath ghosted over the sharp swell in the middle of his throat. 

Iliana felt Aerin tremble beneath her as she tugged his collar aside and scraped her eyetooth along the long muscle that spanned the distance between his collarbone and the base of his jaw. His chest rose and fell rapidly against hers, breath leaving his lips in soft little pants that were in perfect sync with Iliana’s thundering heartbeat. It was torture, being able to touch him like this, but  _ only _ like this. 

Gods damn it all, she really hated these poison fields.

“Iliana,” Aerin whispered hoarsely,  _ brokenly _ , although whatever words he was about to say instantly died on his tongue as Iliana found that tendon once more and bit down, gently kneading the pallid skin there between her teeth. Aerin stifled a low groan with the back of his hand as the hand that was tangled in her hair slipped free to plaster itself to the small of her back, holding her flush to his chest.

She pulled back, eyes wide with concern. “Too much?”

Aerin quickly shook his head, pressing his forehead to hers as his hands gently gripped her upper arms. “Never,” he replied a bit breathlessly after a few moments had passed and he regained his composure, his eyes searching hers. Aerin glanced toward the flap of the tent and his shoulder seemed to slump. “But, as much as it pains me to say this… perhaps it is for tonight.”

Right. Mal was still outside and it  _ had _ been a dreadfully eventful evening. They would be thoroughly exhausted come morning. Iliana sighed and was about to clamber off of the prince when Aerin caught her, gently tipping up her chin with the knuckle of his forefinger. “We will… continue this later?”

Iliana covered his hand with hers and smiled, kissing his fingertips. “Later,” she whispered, and when she said it, it sounded like a promise. She could only hope it was one she would be able to make good on. Iliana clambered off of Aerin, but not before she ducked her head and playfully nipped at the muscle that sloped between his neck and shoulder.

“You’re wicked,” Aerin murmured, shooting Iliana a reprimanding yet flustered look, his gaze trailing after her as she situated herself on her own bedroll.

Iliana smirked slyly as she pulled a fleece-lined blanket over her and laid her head down on her pillow. Her heart was still racing, nerves still tingling as her body remembered the way it felt to touch him, to be near him, even with all of the restrictions. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Aerin stared at her for a few moments, expression warm and thoughtful. Eventually, he shook his head and laid on his side facing her. “I do not. Not even in the slightest.”

Iliana smiled softly, her gaze traveling over his face―what she could see of it anyway. She flushed as her attention fell to his neck, which was mottled with scarlet marks, her handiwork. Iliana reached out, brushing her fingertips against one of the rosy splotches. Gods, what was wrong with her? Iliana frowned, embarrassed. “These aren’t very princely.”

Aerin shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t mind them,”

Iliana snorted softly. “You don’t and neither do I,” she said, calling upon the Light. Her fingertips glowed silver as she pressed them against his tender skin. “But I’ll save Mal the horror of seeing it nonetheless.” She could practically picture the rogue’s scandalized expression, hear him gagging in revulsion just to spite her. Iliana chewed the inside of her cheek as another thought rose to the forefront of her mind. “Speaking of Mal… You two are alright?”

Aerin sighed and nodded. “We talked. You won’t have to worry about us getting into another foolish fight.” He paused, then added wryly, “ _ Hopefully. _ ”

Iliana smiled. “That’s good to hear.”

When the marks had fully faded from Aerin’s neck, Iliana pulled away, the silvery light dissipating from her fingertips. Aerin watched her hands, brows pulling together. When he spoke, she could hear the note of hollow disapproval. “You shouldn’t waste your Light like that.”

“Tch. That was nothing,” she said dismissively, waving her hand. “I’m an elf, remember? I can manage a few seconds off of a dreadfully long existence.”

Aerin glanced away, his eyes shuttering, demeanor suddenly hard and cold. He nodded stiffly. “That is true.”

Iliana was about to question why he seemed so… bothered all of a sudden when it all clicked and the ugly realization of what her words foreshowed dawned on her.  _ Oh…  _

Whatever this was between them… it did not matter. Aerin’s prime would come and go, his body would grow weak with age, and she would still remain the same.

Iliana was not prepared for how much that realization would hurt.

“Hey,” she said softly, reaching for his hand. It was so hot against hers―was that new? Or had it always been warm and she had simply been too wrapped up in him to notice? Aerin looked over at her, gaze unreadable as she ran her thumb over the back of his knuckles. “Whatever this is… any decisions we’ll have to make about it are a long ways away. For now, let’s just―”

“Focus?” Aerin offered dryly and Iliana smirked.

“At least  _ try _ to,” she amended. Iliana raised their hands and brought them to her mouth, pressing her lips to the backs of his busted knuckles. She smiled as the tops of Aerin’s cheeks reddened, although her expression quickly fell. “But you’re right. We do need to keep our heads straight. Kade is still out there and the Empire of Ash is coming.”

Aerin’s expression darkened as he glanced away, eyes roaming through the shadows. “Do you have any idea of when or where they might make an appearance? How much time we have left?”

Iliana shook her head, recalling her last dream. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t bet on much. We should try and find Kade and the Old Gods as soon as possible.” 

Her gazed roved over his face, noting the tension in his brow, the consternation in his eyes. She wanted to reach for him and smooth out the line that had formed between his brows but after what she had done earlier, Iliana did not trust her ability to keep her traitorous hands to herself when she needed to. Instead, she refrained and contented herself with giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked softly and Aerin slowly slid his gaze back to meet hers.

“I can’t help but wonder if even with all of this, our quest for the Old Gods… ” he murmured, waving his hand in a semicircle. “Even if we find them, will they be enough to stop the Empire? The Empire of Ash is notorious for its cruelty and strength. They are born and bred conquerors. I suppose I find it difficult to believe that defeating their army will be as easy as it seems.”

“Maybe we need an army of our own,” Iliana suggested, although she had no idea how they would assemble one. Champion of the Realm she might have been, but ultimately, even without the terms  _ traitor _ and  _ criminal _ hanging over her head, Iliana was just an orphaned elf with a few gold coins to her name and an apartment in Whitetower that she had surely been evicted from by now. And Aerin, whether he was officially disowned or not, was still a prince without a crown.

“An army of our own,” Aerin echoed as his gaze grew distant and pensive. After a few moments, he closed his eyes and loosed a heavy, weary sigh. “Perhaps. But there’s nothing we can do about that now. We’ll just… have to deal with that later if need be. For now―” 

Aerin cut himself with an undignified yawn. His ears burned red with embarrassment and Iliana stifled a smile. She knew what that meant. 

“For now, we should rest,” she concluded, feeling something in her chest warm at Aerin’s sheepish expression. They had another long day of traveling ahead of them and they could not afford to waste even a moment dallying.

“You’re right,” Aerin agreed, adding, “as usual.” His eyes roamed over her, and for a moment Iliana thought he might reach for her, pull her into his embrace. She found herself hoping that he would. But instead, Aerin rolled onto his back, pulling their intertwined hands to rest atop his chest, and closed his eyes. “Goodnight, Iliana.”

_ Right. Focus.  _ She nodded even though he could not see. “Goodnight, Aerin.”

Iliana let her eyes drift shut, finding comfort in the sensation of Aerin’s chest rising and falling beneath her hand, steady and reassuring. But even as she felt herself succumb to sleep, Iliana could not help but think that Aerin was right. 

Their troubles with the Empire of Ash had barely begun.

* * *

The party had stopped for a mid-afternoon break when they saw  _ them  _ on the southern horizon.

“What the hell is that?” Imtura grumbled, plugging her water-skin with its stopper and getting to her feet. Instinctively she unhooked one hand axe and her stolen war hammer from her belt, rotating her wrists to twirl her weapons with a flourish. Several dark shapes appeared on the horizon, outlined against the hazy purplish mountains of Vishanti, steadily growing closer. At first glance, they appeared to be men on horseback.

Nia stiffened, her fingers stilling in their path through Threep’s fur. “Is it the Khagan and her warriors?”

Iliana peered into the distance, knowing Tyril was doing the same. With her keen senses, Iliana could just make out the silver glint of polished armor and beyond that, a red and gold banner flapped in the wind. She met Tyril’s gaze, cold tendrils of dread pooling in her stomach. She could tell by the grim set of his brows that he had made the same deduction. These men flew the colors of House Valleros.

“No,” Iliana muttered, unslinging her bow as she looked at Aerin. “It’s the King’s men.”

She felt a twinge of pity as he paled, eyes widening, and turned to face the oncoming riders, his hand resting atop the pommel of her old sword. The muscles in his neck tensed as he clenched his jaw, expression darkening. “Then they are here for me. I should have known they wouldn’t have stopped looking for me after Whitetower.”

“How did they get through Vishanti without encountering the Khagan’s men?” Imtura asked, her brows pulled together.

As the knights drew closer, Iliana could see that swaths of fabric concealed the lower halves of the knights’ faces, and some sort of contraption that resembled grazing masks covered the muzzles of their horses. Their gilded armor was scuffed and the tunics that lay beneath were shredded in places. 

Tyril shook his head, noticing the same thing Iliana did. “I’m not entirely sure they didn’t. They look like they’ve been through hell.”

“Haven’t we all?” Mal muttered.

“How many do you see?” Aerin asked flatly.

Tyril squinted before answering, “Thirteen.”

Aerin swore and Iliana frowned at him. His vocabulary seemed to be getting even more colorful by the day. “What is it?”

“Unless that’s a coincidence―and I doubt it is―that would be the Captain of the Royal Guard and his men. The best of the best,” Aerin answered, his voice sharp and bright with anger. “The fact that Father sent  _ them  _ after me…” He shook his head, face hard. “He certainly isn’t taking any chances.”

“Do you think they are here to kill you or bring you back?” Tyril questioned and Aerin bristled.

“My father typically abstains from violence unless absolutely necessary,” Aerin replied bitterly, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. “But in this case, I don’t think he particularly cares anymore whether I live or die.”

Iliana frowned. “Aerin…”

That simply couldn’t be true. She remembered the way King Arlan had looked at his second son when they had brought him back from the Shadow Realm―with a mix of anger, pity, and sorrow, but not hate. And when she had encountered him in the royal archives during her search for Kade… 

_ If you see my boy, tell him… Tell him I said hello. _

Arlan was not a good father, but Iliana refused to believe that he would sanction the death of his only son, no matter how many wrongs laid between them.

“Your family is just full of gems, prince,” Mal huffed as he flexed his hands, cracking his knuckles. “What do we do? Fight? Doesn’t look like there’s too many of them.”

Aerin shook his head, taking his hand off the pommel. “We can’t engage them. We won’t win.”

“That’s a load of crock,” Imtura spat, shooting him an incredulous look. “Did you forget how many Whitetower sissies we took down when we left the capital?”

“ _No one_ _will win,_ ” Aerin amended. “It’s too risky to get into a fight right now. We’re as dangerous to ourselves and each other as we are to them with the poison in the air. All it takes is one slip and someone might be breathing in spores. Remember what happened with me and Mal?”

“Not going to forget about that any time soon,” Mal huffed. When his gaze slid to Iliana, his expression softened, eyes gleaming with repentance. “Sorry about that again, kit.”

Iliana simply shrugged. They had already spoken in length about what had happened last night and she was more than ready to put the whole event behind them, especially when she had bigger things to focus on now. And more than that, she knew enough about regret and about Mal to understand that it wasn’t really  _ her  _ forgiveness he needed to move on.

“That reminds me,” Aerin said, pulling a spare strip of cloth from his pocket and tossing it to Ilina. “You should cover your mouth. Don’t let them know that it is possible to survive breathing in the spores. We want them to be cautious.”

“Um. Should we be running?”Nia asked, wringing her hands together as Iliana fastened the fabric around her face. 

“No. We’d only be wasting our energy,” Tyril countered, shaking his head. “They have horses. We do not. Eventually, they will overtake us and we will have exhausted ourselves for nothing. Perhaps if we had a place to hide…” He glanced around, eyes narrowed in distaste. “We’ve no idea how much longer these plains stretch on for.”

Imtura’s eyes flashed. “So, what? We let ourselves get taken? I thought Iliana said we don’t have time for diversions.”

“We  _ don’t. _ ” Iliana scowled, looking between Aerin and Tyril. Just what, exactly, were they planning? “What are you suggesting we do?”

If possible, Aerin’s expression only seemed to darken further. “Captain Ristridin is a smart man. And he seems to favor diplomacy to fighting, which is surprising for a soldier. It’s one of the reasons my father favors him.” Aerin’s eyes narrowed and he inhaled deeply, drawing himself to his full height. “I’ve always liked him as well. I will talk to him. See what he has to say, first. Perhaps he can be reasoned with.”

“Reasoned into letting us go free?” Mal questioned, doubtful. 

Aerin lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“And if he can’t be?” Iliana asked, scanning the horizon. The guardsmen were now close enough that Iliana could see the whites of their eyes, feel the rumble of the ground beneath her feet as the horses’ hooves thundered on.

Aerin’s fingers curled into his palms, knuckles growing white. If possible, the dark rings beneath his eyes became even more pronounced as he shrugged. “We’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

Iliana did not miss the brief look he shared with Nia nor did she miss the way the priestess seemed to pale in response. That alone made her chest tighten in fear.  _ What the hells was that supposed to mean? _

But before Iliana could press either of them for information, she was cut off by a booming voice.

“Prince Aerin!” called the knight at the center, a barrel-chested man with salt and peppered hair and a thick, curly beard that was partially covered by the red fabric that wrapped around his head. Judging by the way the riders seemed to fall neatly behind him, Iliana assumed that he was Captain Ristridin. “We’ve come a long way for you, boy.”

Iliana felt something brush against the back of her hand and glanced down to see Aerin’s fingers brush over her knuckles, tightening her grip around her bow. “They will try to surround me. Pick a line, Iliana,” Aerin murmured. “And hold it. There’s thirteen of them, but only one leads. Let them come close enough for parley, but no further.”

Iliana raised a brow then nodded in understanding. Aerin strode forward to meet the thirteen riders, drawing their attention as Iliana drew an arrow from her quiver and notched it.

“Always a pleasure, Captain Ristridin,” Aerin said by way of greeting as he put some distance between himself and the rest of the party, his voice loud and clear. 

The change in his demeanor was almost tangible. This was not brooding or meek Aerin. This was the Aerin Iliana had recently come to know ever since they had crossed into Vishanti, the Aerin that had stopped their captors from killing them on sight, who had gracefully navigated their audience with the Khagan, who had deceived the halfling ruler and used her as leverage so that they could all escape. He was confident, proud, and unwavering. Iliana did not think that this was another act of his. It was real. “I should have known that Father would send you after me,” Aerin continued as the men came closer. “Only you and your Thirteen would be capable enough to navigate Vishanti and the poison fields.”

Iliana kept her bow lowered but her gaze did not stray from the approaching knights. Thirty meters separated them from Aerin. Then twenty. Ten. When barely five meters laid between them and her prince, Iliana raised her bow, aimed, and fired, all in the time it took for her to inhale a single breath. 

As expected, her arrow whizzed right by the Captain’s head, narrowly missing the tip of his ear. Ristridin yanked on the reins of his horse, pulling it to a stop that was so abrupt, he was nearly thrown off his saddle. Immediately, his men followed suit.

Before the last man’s steed had come to a complete halt, Iliana had nocked another arrow and aimed it at the Captain. “Come any closer and I’ll shoot you down before you can even lay a finger on the prince.”

“The Champions of the Realm.” Ristridin lifted his chin, gazing down his nose at her with a look of appraisal. Iliana noted smugly that he did not move any closer. “Do you plan to shoot us all, my lady?”

Iliana did not like his tone one bit―the mocking doubt that was laced into his words.

She shook her head. “I don’t need to. Just you. Although for the record, Captain,” Iliana added sweetly with a saccharine smile. “If I wanted to shoot you all, I could. But nobody needs to die here today.”

Ristridin’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded. “We are in agreement, then. You are right,” he admitted smoothly, gesturing for his men to lift their hands from their weapons as he turned his attention to Aerin. “No one needs to die here. Your father wants you home, Aerin. We are here to bring you back.  _ Safely. _ ”

Aerin scoffed―a cold, dry sound. “‘Safely?’ I know you are a man of honor, Captain Ristridin. So do not lie to me. How am I supposed to believe you when one of your men tried to cleave me into two back in the heartoak forest? Not a member of the city guard. A  _ royal guardsman. _ ”

At this, Ristridin looked shocked. His dark brows rose and he shook his head, evidently grappling with this new information. “I… that’s not…” He stopped himself, clearing his throat as he regained his composure. When he spoke again, Iliana sensed the sincerity in his voice. “Those were not my orders, Prince Aerin. No men from the Royal Guard were sent into the heartoak forest on the night you escaped. But there are those within our ranks that were devoted to your brother and resent you for what you did. I swear to you, on my life and on my honor, that they acted on their own accord. Your father does not want you dead, Aerin.”

If Iliana did not know Aerin the way she did, she would not have noticed the way his chest stuttered ever so slightly and the thumb of his left hand restlessly brushed over his knuckles―the only signs that the Captain’s statement affected him, surprised him,  _ hurt _ him.

Aerin shook his head. “How did you know where we were going? No one knew of our plans. We flew to Vishanti. There were no tracks for you to follow.”

“It does not matter. We did what we had to do,” Ristridin replied, although perhaps if the Captain of the Royal Guard had been trained as Aerin had, he would have been better at curbing his impulses, his tells. Instinctively, Ristridin’s gaze flicked to  _ Imtura. _ The glance was so brief, so subtle, Iliana might have missed it if she didn’t have an arrow pointing at the space between his eyes.

Evidently, Imtura had noticed as well. She sucked in a sharp breath. “No…”

Iliana glanced over at her just in time to see Imtura’s startled expression transform into one of outrage. “ _ My crew,” _ she snarled, starting forward, axe and hammer twirling in her hands. “I am going to _ kill you all! _ ”

“Easy there, Immy,” Mal said quickly as he and Tyril rushed forward, each grabbing one of her brawny arms to hold her back.

“Your crew still lives, Imtura Tal Kaelen,” Ristridin stated, although his assurances did nothing to soothe Imtura’s frenzy. 

She growled menacingly. “If you so much as harmed a single hair on any one of their heads, I swear I will skin you alive! Your bones will make a fine broth, men, I―”

“There is no need for any of this,” Ristridin interrupted, looking hard at Aerin. “Prince Aerin, we have come a long way for you. We fought the wooly men and braved the poison fields to find you. We will not turn back without you. Now, you could make this a lot easier for everyone if you would just come along―”

Aerin lowered his brows. “I can’t do that.”

“You know what you did is wrong. Unforgivable.” Ristridin shook his head and although Iliana did not know the Captain well, she detected something like pity in his dark eyes. “Even if you escape us now and tomorrow and the day after, you cannot run from what you did to your brother and to your kingdom. If you come back with us now, things can still be salvaged. Your father will even give you your old rooms. You won’t have to see the inside of that cell again, boy, even though we both know you deserve it.”

“That’s not what this is about!” Aerin bit out sharply, his frustration slipping free of its leash for a brief moment before he reeled it back in. He took a deep breath, hands flexing at his sides before he folded them behind his back. “I am  _ trying _ to protect my kingdom and save one of my friends.”

“Protect your kingdom?” Ristridin echoed, glancing around at his men, who seemed unmoved by Aerin’s statement. “By running away?”

“By finding the Old Gods,” Aerin answered coolly and Iliana watched as shock and confusion registered on the faces of the thirteen knights. “There is an enemy unlike any you could imagine coming for our kingdom, Captain. I do not mean the forces of a neighboring kingdom, I mean those of great evil. The Empire of Ash, the Great Conquerors of legend, are coming into our realm, and if we are not prepared, Morella will fall.”

There was a beat of stunned silence, then―

“ _ The Empire of Ash? _ ” Captain Ristridin repeated, dubious. “Boy, have you gone mad? The Empire of Ash is a myth, a legend. Do you honestly expect us to believe that?”

“You don’t have to believe that for it to be true,” Aerin countered flatly, leaving no room for argument. “They are coming whether you choose to accept it or not.”

The Captain’s eyes narrowed. “Even if that was true―and we have no evidence that it  _ is _ ―why should we believe that you are trying to help? That you aren’t making up some elaborate story to justify your escape?”

This time, it was Iliana who spoke up, unable to stay silent any longer.

“Because you know him,” she answered, surprised by how confident her own voice sounded in her ears and the conviction that wove its way into her words. “Aerin has only ever wanted what is best for Morella. We all do. My companions and I are the ones who brought Prince Aerin back from the Shadow Realm because we understood as you do that he needed to be brought to justice.”

Without shifting her gaze, Iliana tilted her head, gesturing toward her friends. “Yet, each of us stands before you now, ready to tell you that every word he has spoken is true. And if you try to take him, you will be jeopardizing our plan, and by extension, our kingdom.” For emphasis, she pulled her bowstring back so tightly, the metal and wood of the limbs groaned. “I can’t let you do that.”

The silence that followed her words was deafening. Iliana caught Aerin’s gaze and was momentarily overwhelmed by the warmth in them―the gratitude, respect, and affection. The Captain of the Royal Guard studied them, dark eyes unreadable as they scoured Iliana and her companions, who stared back, unfaltering. Beside him, Ristridin’s men shifted uncertainly, glancing at one another.

“So what’ll it be, Captain?” Mal asked, brandishing his daggers as he arched a brow. “Are you going to let us do our thing or are we going to fight? Because you aren’t taking the prince.”

At long last, Captain Ristridin opened his mouth. “I―”

There was a whizzing sound, and then a sickening squelch as an arrow punched clean through Ristridin’s shoulder, right in between the gaps of his armor. Iliana inhaled sharply, her gaze instinctively darting to her own arrow, which was still notched in her bow.  _ It wasn’t me. _

Aerin’s eyes seemed to brighten in understanding before Iliana even realized what was happening. Aerin turned and started toward her, drawing his sword, his eyes wide with concern. “Iliana―”

Then Iliana heard it. They all did.

The thundering of hooves, and a very familiar war cry.

“Black hells,” Mal snarled, his daggers sliding into his hands. “It’s the Khagan’s men.”

The warriors rushed over the horizon like a black tide on horseback, a host that was at least twenty men strong. In unison, several of the royal knights raised their longbows and turned them upon the horde.

With a pained grunt, Ristridin snapped off the tip of the arrow, yanked the shaft from his shoulder, tossed to the ground, and bellowed, “Shields!”

Aerin was at Iliana’s side, tugging her to the ground behind one of the knights and his shield just as a volley of arrows rained down upon them. Fortunately, the others had the same idea. Threep was shielded by Nia, who was shielded by Imtura, who dragged the priestess and her nesper behind one horse while Mal and Tyril each ducked behind two others. Most of the arrows plunked harmlessly against the gilded shields of the guardsmen although some speared the ground around them.

“Who are they here for?” Nia asked, glancing down at Threep as he poked his head out of her satchel and hissed his displeasure. “The Captain’s men or us?”

“I’d wager both,” Tyril replied darkly, eyes narrowed as he watched the approaching horde.

“What do we do?” Iliana questioned as Aerin glanced around one of the horses, holding her old sword out before them. “You said we can’t afford to fight.”

Aerin’s hand burned against her shoulder. He shook his head. “ _ We  _ can’t.”

She whipped her head in his direction, gaze demanding. The way he said that… “What are you planning?”

Aerin did not reply. He only gave her a look that was at once resigned and apologetic, then glanced away, withdrawing his touch. Again, he glanced at Nia.

Iliana felt panic jump into her throat. She had no idea what was going on but she did not like it one bit.  _ “Aerin.” _

He ignored her. When the next volley of arrows soared through the air, a cluster of black dots that rapidly grew closer, Aerin stood, the Shadow flaring around him. He waved his hand almost casually and a whip of darkness lashed through the air, snapping the arrows in half. They fell harmlessly into the fields as Aerin sent a shockwave of Shadow barrelling through the center of the Khagan’s host, knocking wooly men from their horses and into the tall grass. It would not keep them down for long, especially since he refrained from doing any lethal damage, but it was a worthwhile setback.

_ Holy gods…  _ Iliana thought in awe.

The veins at his neck and hands pulsed black, then faded to their normal waxy blue, although Aerin looked winded. Color was high in his cheeks from exertion as he addressed Ristridin, who looked shocked, to say the least. “Captain Ristridin. If you help me get my friends out of this alive, I will go with you willingly. You have my word. Take me but let them complete their mission.”

“Absolutely not!” Iliana blurted at the same time Imtura demanded, “You kidding me prince?”

“We don’t have time to debate this,” Aerin snapped, gesturing toward the remaining Vishanti riders.

About twenty wooly men still remained and they were drawing closer by the second. In a few moments, they would be upon them. Tyril’s blue flames splashed the ground before the Vishanti riders but they barreled through, unperturbed. 

“Captain,” Aerin demanded, obliterating another cloud of arrows with an almost casual flick of his wrist, although Iliana noticed a sudden tension in his shoulders that was not there before. The Shadow seemed to be putting some strain on him, although whether that strain came from exhaustion or restraint, she was not certain.

Something softened in the Captain’s gaze when he turned to face Aerin. He tilted his head, appraising. “You are different, boy. But still the same.”

“I…” Aerin swallowed whatever words he was about to say and shook his head dismissively. His voice was hard and purposeful. “Do we have a deal?”

Captain Ristridin looked at Aerin for a few long moments before he answered, “No.”

Aerin’s face twisted with frustration. “Captain―”

“Protect Prince Aerin!” Ristridin commanded his men as he lifted his sword and shield. Beyond him, the Vishanti warriors stowed their longbows and drew their blades, now within range for melee. “Cover their retreat!”

Aerin faltered, his face going slack with surprise. His sword dipped toward the ground. “Ristridin―”

“Go, boy! Do what you must!” The Captain of the Royal Guard held his sword aloft and kicked his heels into his steed’s flank, spurring it forward to engage the wooly men. His men followed without question, quickly shifting into a tight formation, moving together with a fluidity that was born from years of experience and an astounding sense of unity.

Mal gaped after knights as they clashed with the Vishanti warriors. Steel sang and screeched and men yelled their fury, all of the noise blending into the grating language of war. “Did they just…?”

“They did,” Tyril answered, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. His icy gaze slid to Aerin. “We must go.”

“But he―they―” Aerin stammered, brow knitted in confusion, as if he could not comprehend the scene that was unfolding before him. He staggered forward as if in a trance. “I should help.”

“Not like that you won’t,” Imtura told him, grabbing his shoulder and hauling him back. “Come on, princeling. Let’s go.”

He whirled on her. “Pardon? They’re outnumbered! They need my help―”

“You said it yourself,” Iliana reminded him, wrapping her fingers around his wrist and tugging him in the opposite direction as Imtura ran ahead. “We can’t afford a fight right now. Open combat is too dangerous in these poison fields.”

“Exactly!” he argued, attempting to yank his sleeve free from her grasp but to no avail. “And without me, they just made themselves _ that _ much more vulnerable!”

“That’s their choice,” Iliana told him, scowling as he dug his heels into the ground. 

“They are risking their lives for us! For me!” he protested in disbelief, trying in vain to rush back toward the fray, even as the rest of their friends began to run in the opposite direction. “Why?”

Iliana groaned internally. Really? He wanted to have this conversation  _ now _ ?

“Because that’s what men do for the people they believe in,” she snapped, releasing his hand to grab his shoulders. She yanked down the cloth that covered her mouth so Aerin could see her face clearly and witness her sincerity for himself. “Ristridin made a judgment call and decided that fighting for you and our quest was better than taking you back because he believes you, Aerin.”

Aerin jerked his head, looking over his shoulder where brutal fighting still progressed. “They’re my father’s men, not mine. I haven’t done anything to earn their loyalty, I―”

“But maybe you  _ did _ ,” Iliana insisted, reaching out to turn his head away from the battle. “Years ago. You have always been kind and caring, Aerin. Ristridin had to have seen that when you were growing up, and I think he saw that again when you offered to go with him to let us go free.”

“I betrayed my kingdom, Iliana,” Aerin countered, brows knitting in anguish. “I lost his trust and loyalty the day I killed Baldur. The same day I lost yours.”

That felt like a blow to the gut. Iliana squeezed his shoulders, adamant. “You  _ didn’t _ lose mine. That’s not how loyalty works. Or trust. One mistake, no matter how big, doesn’t erase all the good you have done. Yes, you hurt and angered a lot of people that day. But I am willing to bet that there are still people who remember the good in you.”

He shook his head, eyes muddied with confusion and conflict. “I don’t deserve that.”

“That isn’t for you to decide,” Iliana told him firmly, sliding one hand down his arm to take his own as she began to retreat. “You think that people will never stop seeing you for what you have done, that people would not choose to fight for you because of it. But I would, Aerin. Our friends would. The Captain of your father’s guard and his men would.” She swiped her thumb over his knuckles. “The very first day I met you, we told you that you would make a better king than Baldur. There is something about you that inspires loyalty and respect, something that has  _ nothing  _ to do with your Shadow magic or the masks you know how to put on. That’s just you.”

“She’s right.”

Iliana and Aerin turned to see Tyril standing nearby, his face grim and perhaps a bit exasperated. But in his eyes, Iliana recognized a glimmer of understanding. 

“You would make a good king, Prince Aerin,” Tyril admitted, striding forward to clasp Aerin’s shoulder. “People often say that one of the most difficult challenges a ruler will ever face is inspiring loyalty amongst their people. A good one can do so without even trying. But the  _ best  _ rulers know that the hardest part about inspiring loyalty is living with it. Good men and women are willing to fight for the people they believe in. Die for them. And sometimes, you must let them.”

“But…” Aerin swallowed hard as he glanced over his shoulder and Iliana’s heart twisted at how distraught he seemed.

“Please, Aerin,” she pleaded, squeezing his hand. It burned against hers. “It’s what Ristridin wants. You said that the Captain and his men are the best in your father’s company. You have to trust that they can handle themselves. We can discuss this later, but for now, we need to go.”

Aerin gazed at the skirmish for a few moments longer, his hands flexing as if he contemplated using the Shadow to help in whatever way he could, but with the distance and the chaos, it was obvious that he could cause just as much damage to Ristridin and his men as the Vishanti warriors. At long last, Aerin nodded dejectedly and sheathed his sword. “You’re right.”

Iliana breathed a sigh of relief. She tugged him closer, briefly pressing her lips to his temple. “I know it’s hard, but you’re making the right decision.”

Aerin only nodded as Iliana gripped his hand tighter and together, they broke out into a sprint. They ran alongside Tyril to catch up with the others, the sounds of battle gradually fading into the distance. When Iliana was certain that Aerin was not going to turn around and throw himself into the fight, she released his hand. Distantly, she noted that even with her longer strides, Aerin kept good pace with her. It had only been a few weeks ago that running short distances left him winded. She wondered if his increase in endurance could be accredited to growing more fit over the course of their demanding journey or if the Shadow was somehow fueling him.

Iliana’s limbs ached and her pack was slapping so hard against her back, she thought it might bruise. Nevertheless, she and her companions did not dare slow their punishing pace. They pushed themselves onward, running on pure adrenaline and fear. At some point, the flat landscape of the poison fields rose into gently rolling hills, which made their trek all the more brutal.

Iliana was not entirely sure how long they had been running for―it  _ felt _ like hours―before Nia pointed into the sky and said breathlessly, “Look!”

Iliana did and nearly faltered in her stride as she saw a small dark shape circle overhead. “Is that… a bird?”

It certainly looked like one, although it certainly appeared to be larger than any she had ever seen before, but with the sun at the creature’s back and the distance, Iliana could not make out the details.

“You know… what that means… right?” Aerin panted and Iliana nodded. Aside from each other, the royal guardsmen, and the Khagan’s warriors, this was the first sign of life they had seen ever since they entered the poison fields.

“Rysoth must be close,” Iliana breathed, hope blooming in her chest. If they were finally upon Rysoth, they could finally put these wretched fields behind them. But even more thrilling was the prospect that  _ Kade _ could be there, waiting for them. And beyond that, reaching Rysoth also meant that they were one step closer to finding the Old Gods. “We can find shelter there.”

Renewed by this new revelation, the party continued onward, more determined and resolute than before, even as their bodies begged for rest. As time went on, the bird seemed to stay within sight, a guiding spirit, a North Star. Iliana kept her eyes on it as they trudged forward. Her heart leapt into her chest as she watched the figure dive suddenly, disappearing behind a large hill that concealed the horizon.

She pumped her legs harder, faster, racing towards that hill, then up it.  _ Almost there. I’m on my way, Kade. One step closer. I’m almost there. _ Iliana did not know if the Old Gods listened to prayers or even knew of her existence, but if they did, she hoped they knew that she was coming.

_ Almost there. Almost _ ―

As they crested the hill, Iliana’s heart plummeted into her stomach.  _ No. _

She faltered, pulling herself to an abrupt stop. Before them, laid not rolling hills nor green pastures, but a graveyard. The flora of the poison fields abruptly gave way to dark ash and soot. A forest of jagged, blackened, and bare trees stretched toward the colorless sky like decrepit hands seeking salvation. The destruction stretched on, and on, and on, in all directions. Iliana’s legs trembled, then buckled, folding beneath the weight of her exhaustion, her hopelessness, and her despair. 

“The rainforest,” Tyril breathed, putting a voice to their misery. “It’s gone.”


	20. Burned into Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aerin cannot forget the past.

This had to be some sort of dream. Or perhaps even a nightmare.

Aerin stared at his feet as he and the party quietly trudged through the lifeless forest. No one quite knew what to do after realizing Rysoth had been reduced to dust and ashes, but turning back did not seem like an option. So instead, they continued forward, desperately hoping that something more awaited. Because if this was it… If this was it, then all of their work would have been for nothing. If this was it, then they were all doomed.

_ Northeast beyond the mountains,  _

_ Breathe and you will drown. _

_ At the edge, do not falter, _

_ Step off into lands unbound, _

_ And hear the song of fire and fury. _

_ Outward, inward, and beyond _

_ Lays a bargain that cannot be broken, _

_ A truth that cannot be forgotten. _

Aerin turned Kade’s directions in his mind over and over and over again, trying to decipher the next part of the riddle. “At the edge, do not falter?”  _ What _ edge? And “lands unbound?” He mulled over these lines for hours and came up with absolutely nothing.

Night had since fallen, the moonlight leeching color from the earth and leaving behind a monotone landscape. Ash settled in a fine layer atop Aerin’s leather boots, staining them a desolate grey. He shook his head, dragging his gaze up to the path ahead as a shudder wracked his spine. Sometimes, he could not look at the ash without thinking about what it was constituted of. So many creatures must have perished in whatever horrible disaster brought ruin to the rainforest―entire species, probably, gone, just like that. 

But what disturbed him even more than this were the thoughts of who or what could have caused all of this destruction. Had men been the ones to set torches to the leafy canopies? Such a crime spoke of unmatched cruelty and sadism. Or had a single creature been responsible for all of this complete annihilation? Such a theory spoke of an incomprehensible terror. Aerin wondered how long it had taken this forest to burn. He hoped it was fast and merciful, for its inhabitants’ sake.

He also wondered if Morella was destined for a similar fate at the hands of the Empire of Ash.

He knew these thoughts were morbid, but somehow, they were the easiest of his to deal with right now. Better to focus on these than something more unbearable. 

His mind had always been a bit hectic. His tutors called it brilliant, but Aerin had always seen it as… chaotic. When he wasn’t focused on something, it was a mess. That was part of the reason he enjoyed reading and puzzles. It provided structure, an outlet to which he could direct his attention. Without something to concentrate on, he just kept cycling from thought to thought until one was captivating enough to consume him.

Aerin wished he had his mother’s old puzzle cube now, if only to keep him distracted from thinking about―

_ Captain Ristridin. _

Aerin squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as if that would throw the thought from his mind. He still had not shaken the cold, icky feeling that had taken residence in his stomach ever since he turned his back on that battle.

But nevertheless, the memories crept up on him.

* * *

_ Aerin pulled the hood of his cloak, concealing his royal visage, and cautiously glanced around before he emerged through the grand arches of the Temple of Light, his heart burning with a new, fiery resolve. He turned onto the polished cobblestone streets of the Temple District and started back toward the palace, replaying bits of his last conversation with the Dreadlord in his mind as he went. _

You are ready, young prince, for the next step.

_ Aerin kept his head down, navigating the streets through memory alone. The last thing he needed right now was to be identified while out on his own, especially since he was supposed to be back in the palace, sleeping. Even at this time of night, people were still bustling about the capital _ ― _ scurrying to the Temple for a late offering, stumbling out of taverns, and into shoddy inns. And not just any people.  _ His _ people.  _

_ A wave of animosity rolled through him at the thought. Baldur would never look upon their people with the same sense of duty, the same sense of compassion that Aerin harbored for them now. Baldur did not know them,  _ love _ them the way Aerin did. Even now, Aerin knew with utmost certainty that he would be a far better ruler at the ripe age of fifteen than Baldur ever would ever be in all of his years. _

_ But no matter. One day, the crown would be his _ ― _ everything would be. The Dreadlord had a plan. _

Your powers are growing. One of my agents will deliver to you a means to conceal your strength before dawn.

_ Aerin wondered if he would actually meet this agent the Dreadlord spoke of. So far, Aerin had yet to actually meet any other followers or members of the Shadow Court. The only confirmations he had that they even existed were the objects and notes that mysteriously appeared in his quarters from time to time. Were these agents people from his realm or the Shadow? If they were of the former, did Aerin know them? Would he be able to put a name to the face of his secret helpers? Aerin had so many questions but he knew better than to ask them. _

_ As if on their own accord, Aerin’s feet drew him to a halt. He lifted his gaze just enough to see the familiar fork in the road. To the left, the gleaming spires of his palace reached into the sky. And to the right, the street sloped down into shadow and grime, decrepit buildings and alleyways that were still partially flooded by the crumbling aqueducts _ ― _ the slums. _

_ Aerin’s fingers curled into his palms. If he retired to his rooms now, he would reduce the likelihood of someone finding out that he had snuck out of the palace _ ― _ not that anyone ever really checked he was there nor cared to. Plus, if he was fast enough, he might return in time to catch whoever was supposed to deliver this object the Dreadlord had spoken of. Maybe then, he would get the chance to meet another follower or even another Shadow user.  _

_Aerin looked at the palace, observing the proud turrets and sparkling windows. Then he turned right and delved into the neglected section of Whitetower most people thought was better off forgotten_ ― _the_ _Nooks and Crannies. Those that lived here were his people, too. He would not abandon them._

_ Aerin wove through the cramped streets, all too aware of the vacant eyes that stared out at him from dimly lit windows and doorways. Despair was a plague in the air here _ ― _ Aerin could taste the anguish on his tongue. The Shadow stirred in him, a dark beast lifting its ugly head with renewed interest at the scent of desperation.  _

_ He gazed around without trying to seem too conspicuous. Aerin had taken a turn through the Nooks and Crannies a few times before, but never at night. He saw now that it was a completely different experience. Somehow, everything was worse in the absence of light. _

_ He wondered if his own brother was here tonight, drunk off his feet and tangling with some unlucky man or woman in one of the houses of ill repute. Aerin would not be surprised if he was. Baldur had been suspiciously absent at supper tonight although Aerin was too grateful for the brief respite to ask why. _

_ “Spare coin?” requested a grating voice that reminded Aerin of creaking floorboards and pebbles sifting at the bottom of a stream. _

_ Aerin paused, his gaze falling across a pile of rags that sat against the side of a rickety building. Upon closer inspection, he realized that the pile of rags was in fact an old woman with wiry gray hair and knobby bones. She held out a rusted tin cup in her gnarled hands as she repeated, “Spare coin?” _

_ Aerin realized that her milky eyes were not staring at him, but some spot over his shoulder. She was blind. He stepped forward and peered into her cup. Empty. _

Suppose you don’t get much help from people who have none to give,  _ Aerin thought sadly. Perhaps if the woman was closer to the main thoroughfare, she would have more luck in begging for coin. But then again, she should not even have to depend on the generosity of strangers to survive. No one in the capital should live in such poverty. _

_ Anger rose in Aerin, swift and brutal, but before he could even think to quell it, the woman snapped, “I can hear you breathing. If you’re just going to stand there and gawk, you better move along, boy. If you’ve got no coin then you’ve got no business with me.” _

_ “Oh! Right. Apologies,” he said quickly, jamming his hands into his pockets in search of any spare change. He withdrew everything he could scrounge up _ ― _ a few gold coins and coppers _ ― _ and let them plink into the bottom of her cup. He watched as the woman tilted her cup into her opposite hand, arms tremoring slightly. Aerin’s coin spilled into her palm and she sifted through the change with her thumb, lips moving with inaudible words. _

_ At long last, she tilted her head up, brows drawn together. “You’ve heavy pockets, boy. Whose blood is on this coin?” _

_ Aerin’s brows lifted. “I…” He shook his head, even though she could not see, and cleared his throat. “It’s not blood money. But you can do more good with it than I would.” _

_ If Aerin expected a “thank you” he certainly did not get it. The beggar woman let out a “harrumph” and tucked the coins into the folds of her shawl for safekeeping. Their conversation apparently over, Aerin backed away, oblivious to the figure that unpeeled itself from its station, hidden amongst the shadows. _

_ “You know you are not supposed to be here, Your Highness.” _

_ Aerin nearly jumped out of his own skin, hand instinctively going to the dagger he had sheathed at his side, hidden beneath the folds of his cloak. He whirled in the direction of the voice, gaze landing upon a large figure, cloaked as he was. Aerin narrowed his eyes, hand falling back to his side. Knives were not his specialty. Instead, the Shadow, ornery but contained, welled up inside him, ready to come to his defense.  _

_ “Who are you?” Aerin demanded. When the figure did not answer, he scowled and took one step closer, craning his neck to peer beneath the hood. Almost immediately, Aerin shoved back against the Shadow, forcing it down and locking it away as surprise took its place. “Captain Ristridin?” he whispered incredulously. “What are you doing here? _

_ “You know,” Ristridin said, his voice a low rumble beneath his hood, “if you wanted to have a romp in the slums, you could have at least gone with your brother. You know better than to go out on your own.” _

_ Aerin’s face went aflame with embarrassment. He stammered. “That’s not _ ― _ I’m not _ ―”

_ “I know, boy,” the Captain chuckled, folding his arms across his broad chest as he lifted his head, just enough so that Aerin could see his face without having to crane his neck. “No man goes to the Temple of Light before losing his wits in a brothel.” He waved his hand and began to start up the street. “Come along. Let’s be on our way.” _

_ Aerin fought to hide his grimace. So Ristridin had likely been following him ever since he left. “Please, Captain. Do not take me back yet.” _

_ Ristridin paused and turned back, expression full of disapproval. “My job is to keep you safe, Prince Aerin.” He shook his head, standing tall. “Letting you roam around the slums would be the opposite of safe.” _

_ That was fair, but…  _

_ “But you’re with me now,” Aerin appealed, holding out his hands pleadingly.“I’m only asking for an hour. That’s all. Then you can drag me back. But I need… I need to see this place. To remember it.” His gaze strayed to the blind beggar women. He was not oblivious to the way she tilted her head, angling her ear toward them, undoubtedly eavesdropping on their conversation. But if she had any intention of exposing them, she showed none. Aerin returned his attention to the Captain, his voice pleading and sincere. “To remember  _ them _.” _

_ Captain Ristridin stared at Aerin for a few, long moments. Eventually, he sighed. “Wanting to know your people is a respectable wish, Prince Aerin.” _

Is it? _ Aerin wondered.  _ It should be a standard.

_ “And I will not stand in your way of that endeavor. So I will accompany you,” Ristridin continued and Aerin loosed a small sigh of relief. “But,” the Captain added, holding up a stern finger. “Next time you desire to venture into the city, you  _ will  _ let me know first.” _

_ Aerin nodded, smiling slightly. He bowed his head. “Yes, sir.” _

_ “Good,” Ristridin replied, then ushered him forward. “Then let’s be on our way. Oh, and one more thing.” The Captain grabbed Aerin’s arm and pressed something into his palm. “I took the liberty of gathering this from your chambers before I left.” _

_ It was a small leather pouch, weighed down with coin. _

_ Aerin clutched it to him, hiding it beneath his cloak as he gaped. “You knew? That I would come here?” _

_ “Of course I did.” Ristridin gave him a rare smile _ ― _ a crack in his stern expression. He clapped Aerin on the shoulder with his gauntleted hand as he steered the young prince down the street, delving deeper into the slums. “I know your heart, boy. We all do.” _

* * *

Aerin pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the memories to dissipate like smoke on the wind. It hurt to sift through his memories of Ristridin and his men. Aerin could not recall them without thinking of how he had betrayed them, how, despite his treachery, they had chosen to fight for him today.

He hoped they were alright. But deep down, he knew that was wishful thinking.

Aerin’s anger, which was getting harder to leash with every passing hour, bubbled up in him. He should have stayed behind to help, to do something. Aerin felt a flare of heat and glanced down to see a pulse of inky shadow roll through the veins that spiderwebbed across the back of his pale hands. He sucked in a sharp breath and looked up, glancing around to see if anyone else had seen. Thankfully, no one else seemed to be paying him any attention as they trekked along. No one of course, except for Nia.

Aerin folded his fingers into his palms and tucked his hands into the crooks of his elbows, hiding them from sight. But it was no use. He knew she had seen.

Nia pursed her lips, which were once again visible now that the poison fields were far behind them, and turned away.

“I think we ought to make camp here,” Tyril announced, leading the party to a stop on a semi-flat clearing that sat between a copse of spindly trees. “I’ll start the fire and Mal―”

Iliana unslung her bow, quiver, and travel pack, and unceremoniously dropped them to the ground. “I’m going on a walk,” she declared before muttering beneath her breath, “I think I would like to hit something.”

And without another word, she stomped off into the surrounding woods, leaving the rest of them to look after her in stunned silence.

“Oh, um…” Nia said uncertainly, folding her hands together as she frowned. The last few hours, Iliana had lingered at the back of the pack, glaring at the forest around them as she quietly brooded. Her mood had darkened considerably ever since they arrived on the edge of Rysoth although she did not seem very open about sharing why. Even Aerin and Nia had not been able to goad her into a conversation.

Aerin’s brows pulled together and he started after her. “Should we…?”

“I’ll go.” Imtura put her hand on his chest and dropped her pack at her feet. “If she’s in a brawling mood, that’s my specialty. You all just sit tight. We’ll be back.”

Aerin wanted to go with her, but whatever it was that Iliana needed right now, he feared that he would not be able to provide it. Instead, Aerin nodded and watched Imtura disappear between the bare impressions of once-magnificent trees.

A heavy silence fell between the remaining members of the party as they stared in the direction Iliana and Imtura went. Eventually, Nia sighed, her shoulders sagging. “I think seeing the forest like this has really upset her. It doesn’t bode well for Kade or our search.”

“Yeah, don’t let her hear you say that,” Mal mumbled, setting his supplies down. “It’ll only make things worse.”

Aerin frowned. “I’ve never seen Iliana like this.”

“Silent and seething mad? It’s scary, isn’t it? I prefer it when she yells.” Mal shrugged, exhaling heavily. “But I have. Seen her like this, I mean. A few times.”

“About what?” Aerin questioned.

“Erm, well,” Mal said slowly as Tyril huffed in amusement. “You.”

Aerin winced. “Right. What―” he awkwardly cleared his throat. “What about me?”

Aerin was not entirely sure he really wanted to know. 

“Well, for a while, she was mad about what you did,” Mal admitted as he began to unroll the canvas of one of the tents. “So the three of us,” he waved to Nia, “sort of agreed not to talk about it. But when  _ other _ people would speak badly of you in the local taverns…” Mal shrugged again. “You can bet she shut that kind of talk down real fast.”

“Oh.” Aerin did not know what to say to that. It made him feel… warm inside, hearing that she had perhaps defended him. But he also felt shameful, knowing that he had disappointed her so.

“Yeah, yeah, she’s a real peach. Modern romance these days, right?” Mal coughed as if even speaking such words revolted him. “ _ Anyways. _ ” He slapped his hand against the canvas. “Help me set this up, prince. I’m tired and want to go to bed as soon as possible.”

After a few moments and a bit of squabbling, the three tents were assembled and the campfire was lit. Just as promised, Mal instantly crawled inside one and promptly fell asleep, his snores permeating through the canvas.

“Typical Mal,” Nia hummed as she polished off the shimmering stones of her necklace. Aerin and Tyril nodded in agreement. 

“Typical Threep as well,” Threep said as he emerged from Nia’s satchel, rustling his wings. He scampered toward one of the tents, his tail flicking behind him as he disappeared between the flaps to rest.

Nia clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes. “Lazy cat.”

The three of them sat together in companionable silence, soaking up the warmth of the fire and eating rations. Despite himself, Aerin found himself listening for every little sound in the surrounding wood, although there were not many to detect. Nearly devoid of all life, the scorched rainforest was oppressively quiet, as if the air itself swallowed up every noise.

“So…” Tyril said a short while later, turning his cool gaze upon Aerin. “Would you… like to talk about what happened earlier? With the King’s men?”

Aerin winced, although his discomfort with the topic was eased somewhat when he saw that Tyril looked equally uncomfortable asking about it.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, of course,” Nia quickly added, reaching out to quickly pat his hand. “We’d understand.”

For a moment, Aerin considered taking Nia’s offer and keeping his thoughts to himself. But Ristridin had led his men into battle and put their lives in danger for Aerin. Talking about the Captain, remembering him, was the least that Aerin could do.

_ Look at you, _ he chided himself.  _ Already acting as if he and his men are already gone. They could still be alive. _

But to that point, he also countered,  _ Better to prepare for the worst and be proved wrong than expect the best. _

“It’s alright,” Aerin assured them, absently fiddling with a loose string in his sleeve as he spoke. “Their actions should be acknowledged.”

“Your Captain and his men,” Tyril started, tilting his head. “They seemed like good people.”

“They were― _ are _ ,” Aerin amended, wincing internally at the slip. “I did not know his men as well, but I spent a lot of time with Captain Ristridin. He’s one…” He swallowed past the sudden thickness in his throat. “He’s one of the best people I know.”

“Tell us about him?” Nia requested gently and after a moment of hesitation, Aerin nodded.

“I’ve known Ristridin for almost all of my life,” Aerin began, digging the toe of his boot into the dirt, drawing a line, then erasing it. “He was promoted to Captain of the Royal Guard before I was even able to walk. He’s a strict man. Always ran a tight ship―or palace, I suppose. Although he himself did not always follow protocol.”

“Men in charge rarely do,” Tyril noted, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“It wasn’t like that.” Aerin smiled wryly, shaking his head. “He preferred to get involved himself than to simply give orders. He was the only knight that ever disciplined Baldur or ignored his ridiculous commands and whims. And he accompanied me whenever I snuck out into the Nooks and Crannies to deliver aid in small ways. He could have just locked me in my rooms and forced me to stay in, but instead, he would dress up rags and cloaks like I did to avoid drawing attention. He never told my father about our excursions either.”

“To go to such lengths… It appears that you were dear to him, then,” Tyril observed, fine brows delicately arched.

Aerin shrugged. “Taking care of me was just part of his job. He went with me to make sure I didn’t get myself killed. And where our people were concerned, well, we always saw eye-to-eye.”

“I think I understand why he chose to defend you today,” Nia said softly, lacing her fingers together and folding her hands together in her lap. 

Aerin’s smile fell. He dropped his gaze to his hands, which looked gray and waxy in the moonlight. He tucked them into his sides and shook his head. “Whatever trust we had, I broke the day I… you know the day.” Aerin shook his head, rubbing his knuckles against his temple. “If I had to guess why he did it… perhaps it’s because after two decades of protecting me, it has become heavily ingrained in his nature.”

Aerin did not really believe that, but it was the only thing that made a lick of sense. 

“Hm.” Even Tyril seemed doubtful. He hummed thoughtfully, gazing into the fire, then the cloudy sky overhead. He asked suddenly, “Did he have any children of his own?”

“No. He never even married.” Aerin’s brows furrowed. He did not see why that was relevant. “Why?”

Tyril merely tilted his head, glanced at Nia, then dragged his gaze back to Aerin, brow arched high, waiting for Aerin to put the pieces together himself.

A moment later, understanding hit Aerin like a blow to the gut. He shook his head vigorously. “No. Absolutely not. He wasn’t―I wasn’t―” The word felt foreign on his tongue. “― _ family. _ ”

“No?” Tyril asked, leaning forward across his knees. “How would you know? He watched you grow up. Dedicated his life to serving and protecting you and your family. Perhaps he thought of you as a son.”

Aerin scoffed. “The man was about as sentimental as a lump of mortar. He constantly told Baldur that he was the sole reason he was glad to never have children of his own to worry about. I don’t think Ristridin would have even known the first thing about being a father.”

_ But then again, the same could be said about Father. _

“Well, I don’t think you have to know how to be a father to be a good one,” Nia rationalized as she refastened the clasp of her necklace around her neck. There was a glimmer of sadness in her eyes as she added, “Scholar Vash never intended to be one, but he was the only parent I ever knew. Truthfully, I don’t think I could have asked for a better man to take care of me.”

Tyril nodded along in agreement. “Nevertheless, perhaps he did not see you as a son, but at least a trusted companion. You had the same interests. The same beliefs. The same sense of loyalty and duty toward your kingdom.” Aerin opened his mouth to protest when Tyril held up his hand. “I know what it’s like to grow up feeling like you do not have a single friend in the world. And because of that, I also know what it looks like when you finally find one.”

Aerin frowned. _ Of course. Lady Duskraven.  _

He looked away, burning with shame. “Well, if he did then… I severely disappointed him. The last time I saw Ristridin,” Aerin admitted softly, his gaze drifting to the darkness that loomed between the barren trees, “was the day he locked me away.”

Aerin had not allowed himself to think about the day he had been sentenced in months. It  _ hurt. _ More than he liked to admit. But as he looked between Nia and Tyril, who waited patiently for him to continue, Aerin felt strong enough to face it.

Aerin closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and remembered.

* * *

_ Aerin’s trial was small. _

_ Only King Arlan, the Royal Advisor, the Seneschal, and the Captain of the Royal Guard stood in the throne room before Aerin, as per the king’s request. The fewer people who were present to witness the sentencing of House Valleros’ greatest disgrace, the better.  _

_ Aerin knelt on the ground before the dais, the marble chilling his knees through the threadbare fabric of his trousers. His hands, shackled together at the wrists, sat atop his thighs, pale but completely devoid of any traces of Shadow magic, and trembling from the unbearable cold that wracked his bones. Aerin felt ill, as if he might keel over and pass out or empty the contents of his stomach onto the polished floor any moment now. But he forced down the sick feeling and clung to his fury, hollow as it felt. Captain Ristridin stood at his back, gauntleted hand stationed atop the pommel of his sword, a silent pillar of strength.  _

_ As the Seneschal read aloud the list of Aerin’s crimes from a piece of parchment and droned on about his suggested sentence _ ― _ execution or banishment _ ― _ King Arlan stared down at his son, a mixture of anger, sorrow, and pity swirling in his eyes. Aerin clenched his jaw and glared back. _

_ His father broke their stare first. He looked to his right and stiffly waved his hand. “That is enough, Seneschal. Thank you. I believe I have come to my own decision regarding Prince Aerin’s punishment.” _

_ Aerin’s scowl deepened.  _ Prince Aerin.  _ He did not know what was more offensive: the fact that his father could not even acknowledge him as his son or the use of the title that no longer meant a damn thing.  _ Prince. _ It was as if Arlan was mocking him.  _

_ Aerin watched as his father stood, towering above him from his place atop the dais. He resented the small spike of fear that speared through him.  _ This is it. Where it all ends.

_ “Prince Aerin,” his father began in a quiet, calm voice. There was no need for him to raise it with such a small audience present. His voice carried throughout the empty hall, echoing from all directions, further hammering his coming decision into Aerin’s skull. “For your crimes, which include murder and treason, I hereby sentence you _ ― _ ” _

_ Aerin drew in a small breath to steady himself. He wanted to close his eyes, to flinch, but he forced himself to stay still, to meet his father’s gaze.  _ Do not bend, do not break.

_ The King faltered as if shaken by his son’s resolve. He cleared his throat and started over. “I hereby sentence you,” he declared, “to imprisonment.” _

_ Aerin blinked.  _ Imprisonment?

_ “Imprisonment?” the Seneschal echoed, nonplussed. “For… for life?” _

_ “The duration of his imprisonment has yet to be determined,” Arlan replied calmly, not taking his eyes off of Aerin, gauging his reaction. “Do you accept your punishment, Prince Aerin?” _

_ Aerin still could not believe what he was hearing.  _ Imprisonment? _ Aerin stared blankly ahead. Did he accept his punishment? Aerin wondered what would happen if he said no. Clearly nothing would change, so why was he even given the option? _

_ Aerin felt a nudge against the lowest point of his spine. Ristridin. _

_ “Yes,” Aerin answered at last, his voice low and guttural. _

_ Arlan nodded. “Your sentence is to be put into effect immediately.” His gaze flicked up to a spot behind Aerin. “Captain. You know where to take him.” _

_ “Yes, Your Majesty.” _

_ “Very well.” Arlan glanced at Aerin. “Go.” _

_ Wait,  _ now?

_ Aerin’s eyes widened as he was suddenly hauled to his feet, Ristridin’s hand fisted in the back of his tunic. “Come, boy.” _

_ As Aerin was led toward the double doors that led out of the throne room, the weight of his sentence finally settled in. “Imprisonment?” he questioned aloud, jerking out of Ristridin’s grasp and turning to face his father. His face burned with anger. “That’s what I get for what I’ve done?” _

_ He expected his father to look shocked at his outburst. He did not. _

_ Ristridin grabbed Aerin’s arm, his fingers clamping down like a vise as he snapped in Aerin’s ear. “You want more? Do not make this worse for yourself.” _

_ Did he want more? _

_ Perhaps. It was certainly what he deserved. _

_ “Why don’t you just kill me?” Aerin demanded, his voice raw and harsh. “Like I did my brother?” _

_ He wanted his father to be angry, to show even a fraction of the wrath Aerin displayed now. But again, his father did not give him what he wanted. Instead, Arlan only shook his head sadly. “I am just a man, dear boy. I am not strong enough to see you go, too.” _

_ That only enraged Aerin more. “Don’t pretend to care now!” he spat as he wrestled for freedom against Ristridin’s hold, but to no avail. “You  _ never  _ cared! For twenty years, you never cared and now you suddenly do? Just  _ let me die! _ ” _

_ Arlan’s voice softened. “Death would be too easy. You know this.” He looked to the Captain. “Take him.” _

_ “Coward!” Aerin snarled as Ristridin hauled him out of the room, his grip unrelenting. _

_ “Goodbye, son,” Arlan said sadly, just as the doors swung shut, sealing Aerin out of the world he grew up in and his father’s life forever. _

_ “Enough of this,” Ristridin demanded as he led Aerin through the palace halls toward the dungeons, the rest of his guard falling in step around them. “Your tantrum will not do anything for you now. Save yourself some dignity. It is all you have left now.” _

_ Aerin knew that this was not meant to be an insult, for that was not Ristridin’s style. It was simply a fact. Aerin had no trust, no honor, and no authority any longer. He had gambled all of that away. _

_ He scowled but listened, allowing himself to silently be dragged into the dungeons. The drop in temperature from the palace proper to the sub-levels was significant. Aerin shivered violently, the links of his shackles rattling. He was  _ freezing _ but when he looked around at the surrounding guard, they seemed entirely unfazed. _

_ Ristridin glanced over at Aerin, his expression unreadable. Then he turned to one of his men. “Make sure there are blankets brought to his cell.” _

_ “Yes sir.” The knight wordlessly broke off from the entourage and disappeared down one of the dark halls. _

_ When they finally reached Aerin’s cell, the only one that was being used in the entire block, Ristridin unlocked the door. But before Aerin could be ushered in, the Captain addressed the rest of his men. “Leave us.” _

_ Aerin’s brows furrowed as the other knights instantly obeyed, some retreating the way they came while others continued on into the depths of the dungeons. When they were all out of earshot, he turned a skeptical gaze upon the Captain. “What are you doing?” _

_ “Why did you do it?” Ristridin demanded. _

_ Aerin’s brows flattened. “You know why.” _

_ “Why you murdered your own brother in cold blood?” There was no masking the abhorrence nor the incredulity in the Captain’s voice. “I will never understand such a thing.” _

_ Aerin’s nose crinkled. “You know what kind of man Baldur was.” _

_ “I did. And I  _ thought  _ I knew what kind of man you were,” Ristridin countered angrily. “What gave you the right to decide how he pays for what he did?” _

_ “I am the only one who had the right! You weren’t the one that was subject to his abuse! I was! And that’s not all that this was about,” Aerin snapped. “Father is never going to make a change! He is never going to fix Morella! And Baldur would have done the same. The corruption that has stained the Valleros dynasty for centuries will continue to persist because of them. They are a blight _ ― _ ” _

_ “The only one who is corrupted is you,” Ristridin interjected forcefully, slamming his gauntleted fist against the metal bars of the cell and stunning Aerin into silence. “You are right, boy,” he said, regaining some semblance of tranquility and restraint. “Morella needs change, but this was not the way to do it.” _

_ “And what is the way to do it?” Aerin demanded. “Did you see a way to fix this, Captain?” _

_ “I did not,” Ristridin admitted, although his voice hardened. “But I had faith that you would find one. I just never imagined it would be this.” _

_ Aerin lifted his chin. “I did what I had to do.” _

_ Ristridin scoffed. “Keep telling yourself that, boy.” He shook his head slowly, gazing around the dungeon. “I cannot protect you from this.” _

_ Aerin glared at the Captain for a few long moments. He could not _ ― _ did not _ ― _ protect him from Baldur either. Aerin stepped into his cell. “I am not asking you to.” _

_ Ristridin regarded Aerin silently, his expression unreadable. “I do not know who you are.” _

_ Aerin shook his head. “Nobody does.” _

_ Ristridin clenched his jaw, and for a moment, Aerin thought there was a shade of anguish in those dark eyes. At last, he nodded. “Very well.” He closed the cell door between them and locked it, the sound of the tumblers sliding into place echoing throughout the dark hall with crushing finality. Ristridin bowed his head. “Goodbye, Prince Aerin.” _

_ Aerin said nothing. He simply glared at the Captain of the Royal Guard, his eyes boring into the armored spot between his shoulder blades as the knight disappeared down the corridor, leaving Aerin in the dark. _

* * *

“I said all of that. Did all of that,” Aerin reflected numbly. “And Ristridin still chose to protect me. Despite it all.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the blurriness and the burning sensation that persisted behind his nose.

“I think that he chose to protect you _ in spite  _ of everything,” Nia said softly. “I don’t know the Captain like you do, but maybe he let you go because he wanted to give you a chance to prove that you are still capable of doing good.”

“And you are,” Tyril added, eyes narrowing. “I have seen that. And you will continue to show that you are capable of good because you want to and because you have to. I will make sure you do.”

Even his encouragement sounded threatening. Aerin nodded slowly. “Thanks. I think.”

“Consider it an alternative sentence to being locked in a cell,” Tyril explained flatly.

“It’s like community service,” Nia added brightly and Aerin allowed himself a small huff of laughter. “But in all seriousness,” Nia said, leaning forward to pat his knee. “I will pray to the Light for their safety.”

“As will I,” Tyril added, nodding in solidarity. “I would like to get to know the Captain myself one day.”

Aerin bowed his head gratefully. “Thank you.”

It was odd. Nothing about their situation had improved―Ristridin and his men may or may not have survived, Rysoth was nothing but ashes, the Empire of Ash was still preparing to invade the Light Realm, Kade was still missing, and the Old Gods were but a mystery to them. But somehow, Aerin felt a little lighter.

“Well.” Tyril cleared his throat, pushing himself up to stand. “I expect that tomorrow we will have another long day of traveling, so I am going to rest.” He looked between Aerin and Nia, like a parent addressing their children. “We  _ all  _ should.”

“Of course,” Nia replied, wrapping her arms around her knees. She looked at Aerin and there was something in her gaze that made his mood dim once more. “But I think we will wait for Iliana and Imtura to return, first.”

Tyril nodded, eyes flicking between them once more before he turned and sought refuge in one of the tents, bidding goodnight over his shoulder.

Once the tent flaps swayed shut behind the elf lord, Nia turned to Aerin. “I think Tyril’s really warmed up to you.”

Aerin raised a brow. “ _ That _ was warm Tyril?”

He seemed… lukewarm at best.

“As warm as he gets on nights such as these,” she replied. Then, as if she had just recalled everything that had happened tonight, Nia’s expression grew solemn. She glanced at Aerin’s hands. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He clenched his jaw. “No.”

Nia pursed her lips. “Aerin…”

He knew what she was thinking. “I know.”

He was losing control.

“You have to stop using your magic,” she said softly, her hands anxiously wringing together in her lap. “Or else―”

“I know  _ what else _ ,” Aerin snapped, irritated. He instantly regretted his outburst when Nia flinched beside him. He swore beneath his breath, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Nia was silent for a few moments. Then she scooted closer, expression kind and sympathetic. “That’s the Shadow, isn’t it? It affects your mood. Makes you easier to anger.”

“Yes,” Aerin confessed, exhaling heavily. “But that is no excuse. I should be able to control my own temper.”

Nia laughed softly. “Even normal people can’t do that sometimes. Why should you?”

Aerin supposed that she had a point.

“Still,” he shrugged. Aerin had always held himself to a higher standard―he had to. Even as he stood in Baldur’s shadow, Aerin still had to set an example for others. 

Nia smiled gently. “I know. I’ve always felt that I have to keep my emotions in check too,” she admitted, leaning back on her hands. She adopted a bright and cheery tone. “ _ Always be happy and polite, Nia. You’re a priestess. If you stay in good spirits, others may follow. _ ”

Aerin frowned. He had never suspected that some of Nia’s attitude might be forced. Perhaps he was not the only one who knew how to wear a mask. “Who told you that?”

Nia lifted her shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “One of the priests at the Temple mentioned it once. I don’t remember who, but it sort of stuck with me, I guess. I know I don’t have to pretend around our friends but it’s a hard habit to shake.”

Aerin certainly understood that. He had so many false exteriors, it was hard to abandon them all and just _ be _ . 

“Well, I know you already know this,” Aerin said in what he hoped was a comforting tone. “But you’re allowed to be upset. The group won’t fall apart if you have a bad day.”

Nia gave him a soft smile. “You’re right.”

Aerin began to smile in return but stopped when Nia’s brows suddenly drew together, as if she saw something in his expression that made her fret. “What is it?”

“I just…” Nia sighed, putting her face in her hands. “I know I can’t ask you to stop using your magic to protect us. That would make me a hypocrite. But I… I still wish you would.” She squeezed her eyes shut, drawing in a shaky breath. “I don’t want you to become corrupted, Aerin. And I don’t want to have to…”

Panic lanced through him. Aerin felt like an absolute ass, asking this of her. But he needed this to be done. He needed her assurance. Aerin knew it was only a matter of time before  _ it _ finally happened, and he did not want to live through that―to become something that was no longer him. “You will still do it, won’t you? When the time comes, you’ll end it for me?”

There was a horrible silence in which Nia hesitated and Aerin feared she had changed her mind. But then she nodded, resolute. She stretched her arm out, laying her fine hand over his and squeezing. “Of course. I don’t break my promises, Prince Aerin. When the time comes, I will end it.”

And then, hard and flat from right behind them, Iliana’s voice cracked through the air like a whip.

_ “ What?” _


	21. Razed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the edge, do not falter.

If Aerin had been standing, he might have jumped out of his skin.

He and Nia whirled around to see Iliana and Imtura standing behind them, flushed ghosts looming in the moonlight. Color was high on Iliana’s cheeks and her hair was damp with sweat. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbow, revealing a few nasty looking bruises that made Aerin’s stomach twist.

He did not even realize he’d been reaching for Iliana until she jerked her arm out of reach, glaring at him with an intensity that made him shrink back. Iliana had been mad earlier, but now, she was absolutely livid. She made Imtura look like a docile pup beside her.

“What the hells are you talking about?” she demanded, hands clenching into fists, her entire body going rigid with tension. “End  _ what? _ ”

Misery rolled through Aerin. This was exactly what he had hoped to avoid by making his deal with Nia. He did not want to tell Iliana about the Shadow or the consequences, but now he would have to. Of course, he had to. Did he truly think he could get away with doing otherwise?

When Aerin did not respond, Iliana’s attention snapped to the priestess. “Nia?”

“I…” Nia bit her lip, then glanced at Aerin, an apology in her eyes although he wanted to tell her that she needn’t be sorry. Nia took a deep breath before letting the words come out in a rush. “The Shadow is corrupted magic and every time Aerin uses it, he trades a bit of himself away to fuel it, but Aerin doesn’t want to be corrupted again so we agreed that before it ever got to that point, I would―” Nia broke off suddenly, her eyes welling up with tears. She could not even bring herself to say the words. 

“End it,” Iliana finished for her, her voice as soft as death. Her expression was completely unreadable, even for him. Nia nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Seven hells, princeling…” Imtura breathed, her brows drawing together. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Aerin shrugged hopelessly. “I didn’t want anyone else to know because if you did, you wouldn’t want me to use the Shadow,” he admitted, his eyes searching Iliana’s face although her attention was pointedly directed at the ground. “I just wanted to help. To keep you all safe. But it was the best way I knew how.”

Iliana scoffed. “The best way you knew how?” she repeated scowling at him. She stepped forward, pointing a slender finger at him. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, Aerin. You are―” Her breath hitched, brows pulling together. “ _ You _ are―” She stopped herself again, unable to find the words. She swallowed hard, shaking her head. “Excuse me.”

Iliana abruptly turned and stalked off into the woods once more, disappearing between the spindly trees and shadows. Aerin was on his feet in an instant, calling her name. 

She had only left moments before he did, but Aerin already lost sight of her, her long legs quickly carrying her as far from him as possible. He ran along her footprints in the dust and ash until he lost her trail in the darkness.

“Iliana!” he shouted, panic and worry climbing up his throat. “Iliana, wait!”

He kept walking, then running, not even certain he was going in the right direction. The smoke from their campfire still rose into the air behind him although he had no idea if Iliana continued straight or turned or looped back around to their site. Aerin called her name again, nearly tripping on a branch. Then he did trip. “Ilia―”

Before he could stumble to the ground, a strong hand gripped his shoulder and hauled him back, pinning him to the blackened trunk of a gnarled tree. 

“What?” Iliana snarled, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. A startled exhale left Aerin’s lips as she loomed before him, expression flat.  _ Gods,  _ he had forgotten how quiet and stealthy she could be. Had he found her by accident or had she been following him this entire time? Iliana quickly released his shoulder, dropping her hand as if he had burned her. 

Aerin’s stomach flipped. “Let me explain.”

“Explain what?” she snapped, throwing up her hands in frustration. “How one of these days, I was going to wake up and find out that Nia killed you?  _ Nia?” _

“I thought if you knew,” Aerin said calmly, using his diplomatic voice, “you would never let me use the Shadow to help.”

“Well, you thought correctly!” she huffed, shaking her head as she rubbed at her temples and began to pace. “As if I would sign off on your death warrant, Aerin!”

Despite himself, Aerin huffed. “Death warrant? How is this any different from Nia using her Light? Or you?”

_ That  _ only seemed to piss Iliana off more. “ _ Nia and I _ aren’t going to become corrupted by using the Light! And we aren’t going to be executed for using it either! The energy we give up for the Light shortens it by  _ seconds! _ How long do you have, Aerin? Weeks? Days?”

He shook his head, grinding his teeth together. “I don’t know.”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” she demanded, pausing in her pacing.

“Of course.” A lie.

Iliana seemed to sense the falsehood. She leveled him with a harsh stare, folding her arms. “Really.”

“I don’t know,” he amended, running his fingers through his hair as he exhaled heavily, exasperated. “I didn’t want to have to.”

“I cannot believe this,” she muttered, starting to pace again. She shot him a glare. “I cannot believe  _ you. _ What, did you think that we wouldn’t care when you were gone? Did you even think about what it might feel like for me to wake up and find that you simply  _ weren’t there _ anymore, Aerin? You know―You  _ know _ how I feel―”

Aerin did not know what he was doing. He just wanted her to stop pacing, stop yelling at him with so much raw pain in her voice, stop looking as if she were about to cry any moment now. So the next time Iliana passed in front of him, Aerin reached out and grabbed her arm, tugging her closer, closer,  _ closer _ ―until he could lean in and press his lips to hers.

Iliana stiffened in his arms and he heard a muffled sound of surprise emit from the back of her throat. Then she shoved him away, breaking their kiss, her eyes as wide as the full moon. Iliana stared at him, her chest heaving. “You…”

Aerin wanted to kick himself over and over again as he watched Iliana’s expression transform from shock, to outrage, to―

Aerin’s heart leapt into his throat and something molten pooled in the pit of his stomach as Iliana surged forward, grabbing Aerin by the front of his tunic and crashing her lips against his. She pulled him to her but pushed him back with the weight of her whole body as she careened into him, a force of nature in her own right. His back struck the tree she had held him against earlier, a surprised grunt rumbling through his chest, although Aerin found that he did not mind being pinned there now nearly as much as he did before. 

Aerin did not know what to focus on. Iliana’s hands unwound themselves from the front of his tunic and skimmed over his chest and up his neck, making his heart race and his breath quicken. One roamed south, drifting down his side, over his ribs, and flattening against the side of his waist. There was also her body, which was pressed against him so tightly, he could feel her chest swell against his with every breath, feel her soft curves and sharp edges, feel her muscles tense and flex as she moved against him. But then there also was her mouth, fit perfectly against his. 

He had never been kissed like this, with such passion and heat and― _ gods,  _ he did not even know what else. The only thing Aerin knew at that moment was that he was kissing Iliana and he never wanted to stop.

Aerin  _ thought _ that he hadn’t spent too much time thinking about what it would be like to kiss Iliana again, but if that was the case, then Aerin could not explain why there was an entire list in his head of all the things he’d always wanted to do to her. He pushed his hand into her hair, which was smooth and still damp with sweat. He ran his fingers through the dark strands, untangling them as he did. Or perhaps he was tangling them, Aerin could not tell nor did he really care. He would apologize for it later.

He tentatively pressed his hand to the bottom of her spine to hold her closer, all the while fearing he was too insistent, too hungry for her touch. But  _ bless the Light _ , Iliana did not seem to mind in the slightest. She flattened herself to him, fitting the contours of her body to his and matching his need in kind. Her knee slipped between his and―

The noise Aerin made was caught between a gasp and a groan, slipping through his lips and into her mouth before he could stop it. She swallowed the noise and the next that slipped free as she swiped her tongue over his lower lip, then nipped it. He arched against her, fingers tightening in her hair and pressing against her back although it was not possible for her to be any closer. Aerin felt Iliana’s lips curve against his in a sly smile as she laughed lowly. The sound, sultry and full of heat, sent shivers down Aerin’s spine.

He was in trouble. So much gods damned trouble.

For a moment, Aerin wondered if he was dying. Nothing in life had ever felt  _ this  _ good. He was swimming in ecstasy, drowning in it―in  _ her _ as he melted beneath her touch, unmade once more. In that moment―in every moment, truly―Aerin wanted to give Iliana everything she could ever want, including himself. He would have given anything to please her. A thrill went through him as he wondered what exactly  _ anything _ might be for her.

Emboldened by Iliana’s apparent hunger and his own burning want, Aerin let the hand at her back drift down to her leg, curling his fingers around her thigh and squeezing gently. Iliana writhed against him and the hand that was in his hair tightened as the leg she had slotted between his legs hitched higher. 

The words were out before he could stop them. “Iliana,  _ please.” _

Aerin felt her chest heave against his as she shuddered. Aerin wasn’t sure if it was her name or the desperation with which he spoke it that made her respond as such and he did not have time to test any theories out before she broke their kiss. Hopelessly lost in her orbit, Aerin chased after her, tilting his head toward hers, seeking more―seeking  _ anything _ . But Iliana pulled away, her reluctance a tangible thing.

Her hand slid from his hair, cupping the back of his neck with a tenderness that was just as raw and devastating as her kiss. Her thumb swiped over the notches of his neck and Aerin forced himself to open his eyes, gazing at her through his lashes.

Aerin was grateful for the tree at his back and the hand that gripped his waist because without either of them, he was certain he would have fallen to his knees at the vision before him. Iliana’s breath was hot on his cheeks as she brushed her nose against his, gazing at him through lidded eyes. There was a glossiness to them that reminded Aerin of the way she had gazed at him in the Khagan’s fortress, drunk on bittersweet cherry wine. He supposed they were intoxicated now, too. Just in a different way. Aerin wondered if he had the same look about him, although he doubted it looked quite so enticing. 

“I want to,” Iliana murmured, her emerald gaze flicking between his eyes and then down to his lips. Hopeless as he was, Aerin was pretty sure he knew exactly what she was talking about.

Aerin drew in a deep breath, scenting ash and scorched earth―the gloomy stench of the desolate forest. But beneath that, he could also smell Iliana―sweat, and pine, and mountain mist. 

“Whatever you want,” he told her softly, “you have.”

At that, Iliana smiled and Aerin forgot how to breathe. 

“You have no idea how glad I am to hear that,” Iliana admitted, leaning in to press her lips to his briefly, sweetly. But before Aerin could deepen the kiss, Iliana pulled away again, and this time, when she looked at him, her eyes were at once serious and full of promise. That look alone sent a wave of liquid fire through Aerin’s veins. “But I won’t be taking anything from you tonight.”

With his extensive vocabulary and all of his lessons in eloquence, all Aerin could come up with was a dazed, “You―why?”

“Because.” Iliana shook her head, then hid her face in the crook of his neck so that her lips were next to his ear, her breath stirring the locks that curled there. “When I have you, princeling,” she whispered as one of her hands curled around his shoulder, “it will not be against the trunk of a tree in a ruined forest. When I have you, it will be somewhere comfortable and safe and warm."

Aerin’s knees trembled. He never knew Iliana’s affection could be so consuming, so debilitating. He wanted to dive into it, to know the full force of  _ her  _ and everything that she was, everything she could give.

“And when I have you, and you have me, Aerin,” Iliana breathed, pinning his shoulder against the bark for emphasis, “you are going to be healthy and feeling as alive as ever, without some damned magic threatening to take you away from me.”

Aerin blinked, his brows drawing together. “Iliana…”

There was no mistaking the determination that characterized her features. “I am  _ not giving up on you,  _ do you understand?”

Aerin’s heart seized in his chest as he shook his head, hands settling lightly on her waist. “Iliana, there’s nothing we can do. Even if I stopped using the Shadow, it would keep growing with time―”

“There must be,” she insisted with such ferocity, Aerin feared for anyone who might ever stand in her way. “I will tear this realm and others asunder to find it. And if I still cannot find a way, then I will make one.”

“Iliana―”

“You may have given up on yourself but I haven’t,” she snapped, untangling herself from his embrace. Iliana glared into the distance, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “When we find Kade, maybe he will know what to do. And if he doesn’t, then I will find the Old Gods and  _ make  _ them fix this.”

Aerin smiled softly at that. Somehow, he was not surprised in the slightest by her stubborn determination. This was the same attitude with which she treated everything she held dear about―finding her brother, protecting her friends, saving the realm. It made Aerin feel punch-drunk to know that he now fell into the list of things Iliana cared about. Or at least he hoped he did. 

Aerin thought about the way Iliana kissed him and a bit of smugness etched its way into his smile. Yes, he was pretty sure he did.

Iliana tilted her head, arching a brow. “What is that look for?”

He reached out for her, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. “It’s just that when you say all of that…” Aerin tugged gently on her arm until Iliana gave in and begrudgingly allowed Aerin to pull her close once more. “I almost believe it.”

Iliana’s brows flattened.  _ “Almost?” _

Aerin frowned. “We have to be prepared―”

“For anything?” Iliana quipped, emerald eyes narrowed. “How about success? You can sulk and prepare for the worst but I won’t―”

Aerin leaned in and kissed her once more.

For a fraction of a moment, Iliana melted against him, as if it was second nature for her to fall into him. But then she pulled back, shaking her head. “I―would you stop that?” She snapped although there was no malice to her words. The edges of her scowling lips quirked as if she were trying to smother a smile, although her exasperation was genuine. “What, do you really think you can just kiss me and everything will be okay?”

“No, of course not. I just… wanted to do that,” Aerin admitted, bringing her hand to rest atop his chest. Iliana glared at him, although there was a warm light dancing in her eyes. “And there’s nothing we can do about it now, anyway.”

Iliana stared at him for a few long moments, her eyes flicking between his before she dropped her gaze to the hand he held to his chest. Her fingers wandered across his chest until her palm laid over his heart, feeling its steady beat. Aerin’s heart jumped beneath her touch, the rhythm only growing more erratic as a faint smile bloomed on Iliana’s lips. 

“Nervous?” she asked, dragging her gaze up to meet his.

Aerin shook his head and when he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “That’s not it.”

Iliana’s brows knitted, a whirlwind of emotions passing through her eyes. She swallowed audibly and whispered, “I’m still mad at you for not telling me.”

Aerin nodded. “I know.”

“And eventually you’re going to have to let me talk,” she told him, her fingers brushing up his neck, then over his jaw. “Because this conversation is not over.”

Aerin lifted a brow. “‘ _ Eventually _ ?’”

Iliana rolled her eyes. “Later.”

Then she took him by the neck and kissed him again.

* * *

Iliana lost track of time a long while ago.

Somewhere in between Aerin’s hands and mouth, she abandoned any and all attempts to care about their surroundings. Unless she was hallucinating, the sky looked a bit lighter, the dark a little less oppressive, as if the sun was starting to sneak up on them. Iliana really hoped dawn was not approaching yet, because if it was, then that meant she truly had spent all night kissing Aerin―not that she regretted it. She didn’t, not even in the slightest. Although she knew their bodies certainly would when they resumed their trek through the forest. Yesterday had been thoroughly exhausting and Iliana was pretty sure that today would be more or less the same. She supposed that she could call it a night and insist that they get some sleep while they still could but… 

But Aerin’s arms were so warm and she was so content to be lost in them, Iliana could not bring herself to break the spell that settled over them, allowing them to enjoy this moment of peace together, at least for a little while. They had foregone the comfort of a tent for privacy, choosing to linger in the forest where none of their friends could listen in or accidentally intrude on them. Aerin sat against the tree with Iliana in his lap, her arms wrapped around his shoulders as he aimlessly brushed his kiss-swollen lips over her collarbone. 

Iliana’s mind was a thoughtless haze, lulled into complacency by exhaustion and the comfort of simply being with Aerin. She’d kissed him until her mouth was sore, had held herself above him to make him reach for her lips―and he had. Again, and again, and again. 

It was fiercely endearing, the eagerness with which Aerin acquainted himself with her touch, how easily he went wherever she led him. Distantly, Iliana wondered what she had done to deserve such a gentle and hungry soul.

Iliana was not a stranger to fooling around. There had been the farmhand Amphitryon had hired one spring to help till the fields after Alcmene had passed away, the mayor’s daughter, and a few flings from her brief time living in Whitetower. Yet, none had ever made her feel as content as Aerin had. It was no secret that she wanted him―she had told him in no uncertain terms. But Iliana was also more than happy to just be with him, to do nothing more than kiss him and let her hands wander.

If she was being frank, Iliana’s extreme affection for Aerin frightened her. The tenderness Iliana harbored for him marked her like a smattering of bruises and she could not stop digging her fingers into them, tolerating the pain to guarantee that the memory of him―of  _ this _ ―never faded away. 

Iliana curled her fingers beneath Aerin’s chin, drawing his face up to meet hers once more when she stiffened, the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly standing on end. Almost immediately, Aerin’s eyes cleared, sensing her apprehension. “What is it?”

Iliana drew a deep breath and tasted soot and cinders. Her heart clenched in her chest. “Do you smell that?”

Aerin’s shoulders lifted beneath her arms as he breathed in. His eyes widened, face growing slack. “Smoke.”

Iliana quickly got off Aerin and offered him a hand as she stood, turning in a semicircle. Dread snaked through her veins, her heart tearing itself out of her chest as she saw a great plume of dark smoke, barely distinguishable against the dusty blue and purple sky, curl into the air, right above where their campsite laid.

“That’s not just from the bonfire,” Aerin breathed, dusting ash from his clothes.

No. It certainly was not.

Iliana grabbed Aerin’s hand and together they sprinted back toward camp. As they drew near, the back of Iliana’s nose began to burn and her eyes stung from the smoke. She could see the glow of a burning fire, a blazing beacon in the night. A faint wind swept through the forest, stoking the flames and bringing with it a smoldering heat. 

Iliana burst into the clearing first, throwing up her arms to shield her face from the blinding light and searing heat. There was fire everywhere. Flames danced across the ground, licking up the burning trees and eating away at the canvas tents. 

Beside her, Aerin gaped. “Holy gods.”

But Iliana thought,  _ The others. _

Iliana rushed into the inferno without thought nor care, shouting for her friends. Behind her, Aerin called for her to wait but Iliana did not think that she could force herself to do so, even if she wanted to. All she could think of were the flames, ravaging the structures her friends took shelter in.

_ Please be okay. Please be okay. _

Distantly, Aerin swore and his footsteps pounded the ground behind her. A dark wind whipped through the clearing, smothering some of the flames but not all. Iliana grabbed the flap of the nearest tent and yanked it aside. Empty.

Fire singed her fingertips, causing Iliana to yelp and drop the canvas in surprise. Aerin was by her side in moments, taking her hand in between his and inspecting the raw skin with a frown.

“I’m fine.” Iliana winced but tugged her hand away, shaking her head. “The tent, it―it was empty.”

Aerin’s brows knitted together and he glanced around. He waved his hand and the Shadow swept through the clearing once more, blasting the burning remnants of the other two tents away. Only empty bedrolls and packs of supplies were left behind.

“They’re gone,” Iliana coughed, her eyes watering as the stinging intensified. The thick smoke was growing unbearable, shoving its way into her lungs.

“Because of the fire or something else?” Aerin muttered lowly, eyes narrowed as he peered around the clearing. His fingers tightened in the back of her tunic and he began to pull her away. “Illiana, I have a bad feeling about―” Aerin cut himself off abruptly, his eyes widening, then narrowing. He tugged on Iliana’s shirt again, this time pulling her into a crouch. “Look.”

“I―what?” The question died on her lips as Iliana followed his line of sight. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

In the distance, Iliana could make out a dozen bobbing orbs of light. No, not orbs of light―torches. The Khagan’s men spread out through the forest, lighting any and all flammable material as they approached.

“They’re setting this place on fire to smoke us out,” Aerin realized, his voice harsh and low. “Bastards. Why do they even care?”

Iliana scowled, hands tightening into fists as they started to burn with silvery light. She started forward. “I’m going to kill them all.”

“No, you will not,” Aerin snapped, grabbing her elbow and pulling her back. “They still haven’t spotted us yet. If they don’t, we can get away and find the others. Maybe they’re still out in the forest and―”

“Over there! At the campsite!”

Aerin’s expression darkened to something miserable as he turned around, spotting more warriors with torches. He hissed, “I am  _ sick of this _ .”

Iliana certainly agreed with that. 

Aerin lifted his hands, Shadow coiling through his veins when Iliana shoved his arms down. “Don’t even think about it!”

He threw her an exasperated look. “Iliana―”

“ _ No _ ,” she bit out, glaring at him. “What did we  _ just  _ talk about? That is a last resort sort of thing from now on, okay?”

Aerin rolled his eyes but did not argue.

As shouts broke through the air, Iliana’s gaze fell across her weapons, which laid forgotten on the ground where she had left them earlier, gleaming in the firelight. She lunged for them, then yelped as the metal hilt of the Blade of Sol burned her palm, leaving an angry red welt behind. Immediately, a plume of darkness plunged down, cooling the metal of weapons.

“Stop touching things!” Aerin demanded, grabbing Iliana’s old sword for himself while she gingerly picked up her belongings, quickly strapping her bow to her back, hooking her sword scabbard to her belt, and sliding her still-warm gauntlet onto her hand.

“Stop using your magic!” Iliana snapped back, taking his hand. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing as she took in the two separate groups of Vishanti warriors that were now rushing toward them lighting fires and bringing destruction wherever they went. 

Perhaps it was to spite their bad luck or even the Khagan herself, or perhaps it was just because she wanted to―because she  _ could _ ―Iliana leaned in and kissed Aerin once, briefly, passionately. When she pulled back, feeling determined as ever, Aerin looked a little dazed. He flushed beneath her gaze and Iliana wondered how many times she would have to kiss him before he stopped looking so damned surprised. 

She squeezed his hand. “Let’s go.”

Aerin nodded and they ran.

* * *

To put it simply, Aerin was really damn tired. 

Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of being awake. Just tired. He couldn’t help but wonder if his exhaustion had more to do with his lack of sleep―which he did not regret whatsoever for various reasons―or the Shadow that fed on his soul. Unwilling to be the one to flag Iliana down and endanger them both, Aerin let some of his magic fuel him―just as he had yesterday―as they ran from the Khagan’s men. 

Aerin could not believe that the Khagan’s warriors had found them again so soon. But with that realization, came a harrowing question: if the wooly men were here, what had become of Captain Ristridin and his knights? 

Aerin could not afford to think about that.

Instead, he tried to puzzle out why the Khagan was so determined to have them recaptured, why she had sent her warriors into the poison fields and the ruins of Rysoth. Was it because he had bested her in the forest and this manhunt was a result of bruised honor and a personal grudge? Or did she still want to use Aerin as some sort of pawn in her calculated plays for power? Aerin could not be certain. Perhaps there was some other reason he could not think of while running for his life. But Aerin knew one thing for certain: the next time he saw the Khagan, he would make damn sure that she never bothered him and his companions ever again―assuming Iliana did not get to her first.

Glancing over at Iliana now, observing her exhaustion, frustration, and frightening fury, Aerin did not know how he ever thought he could stand against her.

No longer hand-in-hand but still matching each other’s pace, Aerin and Iliana ran through the forest without a clear destination or even general direction in mind. They had made so many turns and loops, Aerin could no longer tell north from south. He only knew that wherever they heard voices, they ran in the opposite direction. But they were running out of places to go. Fire seemed to burn everywhere, blocking off their path, and Iliana squawked with displeasure every time Aerin smothered the flames with his Shadow. Aerin knew they could not keep this up for longer―eventually, they would either run out of places to run, their weary bodies would collapse from exhaustion, they would be caught and forced to make a stand, or, if they were extremely unfortunate, all three of those things would happen at once.

As if she had heard his thoughts, Iliana panted, “We can’t do this forever.”

Aerin wished he had an answer for her, a solution to their problems, but he did not. They were bone-tired and alone, being hunted by warriors and flame. Aerin simply said, “I know.”

He hated the way Iliana’s brows pulled together, her anger melting into something that looked a lot like fear.

Aerin gazed around at the blurred landscape as they ran. Thick, dark smoke wafted between the trees, turning the lightening sky a desolate grey. Everywhere he looked, flames leaped into the air, dancing like stalks of wheat in the wind. The fires burned a ferocious orange, casting everything in a hellish red light. Aerin imagined that this looked a lot like the end of the world.

Aerin’s attention snagged on a single figure, a dark shadow visible against the sky, soaring high above the jagged tips of the trees. Aerin blinked. It couldn’t be the same bird from earlier―the one that had led them out of the poison fields. Or could it?

It circled overhead, then swooped in one direction for a few moments, then resumed its lazy orbit. Aerin watched the bird do this several times before he reached out and yanked on Iliana’s hand, pulling her in the direction the bird seemed to indicate.

“Aerin, what―”

“This way,” he said sharply, using his Shadow to clear their path of any fire. Iliana’s hand squeezed around his in reprimand, but she was too winded to verbalize her vexation. Aerin knew in his gut that he had made the right decision as the bird broke its cycle and began to fly in the same direction it had seemed to indicate earlier, occasionally looping back as if to make sure that Aerin was following. 

_ Which is ridiculous,  _ Aerin remarked internally.  _ There’s no way this bird can even see you, much less lead you anywhere. _ Nevertheless, he followed.

On and on they ran, following the bird as it swooped, circled back, and continued on. Occasionally, one of the wooly men would intercept them and every time, Iliana would shoot Aerin a look before dispatching the warrior with either her Light or the miniature arsenal she carried on her back. As always, she tried to disarm and incapacitate rather than kill, but they both wondered how much good that did when the entire forest was burning once again. 

Aerin kept his eyes on the bird, using it as his own North Star until it dove suddenly, plunging like a stone in water, and disappeared out of sight. Aerin faltered for half a step, then kept on barreling forward in the direction he had last seen the bird, if only because he did not know what else to do. 

Beside him, Iliana’s breath grew heavier and more ragged, and her feet began to drag in the ash. The last few warriors she fought off took more effort than usual and once, Aerin even had to step in with his own sword and finish the job. She was just about as tired as Aerin was but her magic did not work in the same way his did. If her body had reached its limit, there was nothing she could do to keep going.

Iliana stumbled, her legs buckling, and Aerin lunged to catch her, looping his arm beneath her shoulders and holding her upright.

“I’m… fine,” she breathed and Aerin let her pull away, but when they resumed their race, Aerin eased up on their pace just a bit, even though they could not afford to slow down. The wind suddenly picked up, a brutal gust that carried smoldering embers and the shouts of wooly men that were far too near.

Aerin was seriously contemplating how much further they could run, if they would ever find a safe place to hide or even a way out of this burning hellscape when they broke free of the trees and emerged right onto the edge of a bluff. Iliana reacted first, flinging out her arm and preventing Aerin from careening over the edge.

The sight took Aerin’s breath away as he quickly scrambled back from the side of the cliff. On a peninsula-like jut of land, they overlooked a steep drop into a swirling sea of clouds that stretched to the horizon. There was no way to tell how long the plunge was―the layer of clouds was far too thick to glimpse what laid below―but it was undoubtedly lethal.

Here, the sky was a clear, purplish-blue that blended into soft pinks and oranges as the first rays of sunlight stretched their fingers above the horizon. Golden light seeped into the clouds, a drastic contrast to the dark plumes of smoke that rose behind them. It was beautiful in a devastating sort of way, as all terrifying things were. 

Iliana swore, panicked and vicious, as she stared into the dazzling unknown. “What do we do?”

“You can surrender,” someone said from behind them. “Or you can try to fight us. Or you can take your chances with the fall.”

A mixture of dread and blinding wrath washed over Aerin as he turned, tightening his grip on Iliana’s sword. The Khagan hadn’t just sent her men. The Vishanti ruler had come herself. She stood among a small cohort of wooly men, all of whom were covered with soot, and was flanked on either side by her elite guard, their bronze armor burning like molten metal in the firelight.

“You  _ bitch!” _ Iliana snarled. In a flash, she had her bow drawn and an arrow nocked. Almost immediately, a dozen bows were trained on her in return.

Instinctively, Aerin shifted himself in front of Iliana, shielding her from the line of fire, and motioning for her to put her bow down. When she begrudgingly did, the other archers lowered their weapons as well. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and grating. “Why are you here? I told you that our deal was off. I won’t be a pawn in your political games.”

The Khagan sneered. “We’ll see about that. I’m sure I can find something that might make you change your mind,” she said with an infallible air of confidence as her gaze drifted to Iliana, lingering there for a moment before she met Aerin’s glare once more. “But no matter. That’s not why I’m here.”

Aerin was not in the mood for her games. “Speak clearly.”

The Khagan’s eyes sparkled almost mischievously. “Demanding and authoritative,” she observed mockingly. “Are you sure you don’t want to be king, Prince Aerin?”

Aerin felt the Shadow stir within him.  _ King?  _ his subconscious echoed curiously. Then, with envy,  _ Yes,  _ king.

Aerin ground his teeth together, fingers curling into fists as he shoved the Shadow down. “I said,  _ speak clearly.” _

“You piqued my interest earlier, Aerin,” the Khagan continued smoothly, as if he had not just ordered her to do so. “The reason for your venture through my mountains… you seek the Old Gods.” She grinned, spreading out her arms. “I’ve decided to join your search.”

“So she’s  _ crazy, _ too,” Iliana remarked sharply and Aerin silently willed her to stop before she made things even worse. “As if we would ever work with you, you lying little sna―”

“Why do you want to find the Old Gods?” Aerin asked, cutting Iliana off before she could test the Khagan’s patience even more.

“Vishanti was once home to the White Wolf. Our ancestors once rode the Old God,” the Khagan said proudly, hazel eyes glittering as the flames danced amongst the trees behind her. “It is time our people do so once again. I will be the first of the wooly men, the first khagan, to ride a god.”

“But we need the Old Gods for our war,” Iliana countered, lips twisted into a frown.

The Khagan’s brows rose, then lowered as she smirked. “War? Hm. I wasn’t aware there was a war coming. I certainly hope it doesn’t involve me and my people.”

“It might. The Empire of Ash is coming,” Aerin replied quickly before the Khagan could get the wrong idea. He did not miss the way her eyes widened ever so slightly with recognition at that name. “Yes. You know who they are don’t you? So you know how devastating war with them will be. They are coming and they will be here soon, once they figure out how to create a stable portal from their realm to ours. If you need convincing―”

“I don’t,” the Khagan interjected swiftly, her gaze darkening. She glanced away, looking to one of her elite guards. “That certainly explains some things.”

Aerin and Iliana shared a skeptical look before Aerin studied the Khagan once more. “ _ What _ things?”

“Do we have a deal?” the Khagan asked instead.

“Not yet,” Aerin snapped. “What things? If it has anything to do with our war, we need to know.”

The Khagan glared at him and for a moment, Aerin thought she might refuse to answer. After all, she had no reason to give him anything. She clearly had the high ground in this negotiation. But then he saw something he had never seen before cross her face. Uncertainty. Fear. 

“There have been disappearances,” she stated gruffly, clearing her throat. "In the satellite villages―wooly men and halfling compounds alike. And they aren’t normal disappearances, like animal attacks or the like. All the witness accounts are the same. Tears in reality. Voids of darkness. They’re visible for a few seconds, nothing more. And when they close, someone is gone.”

Aerin felt Iliana tense beside him and the Shadow rose, tasting her fear. He reached back to take her hand and found that her fingers were trembling.

“Satisfied?” the Khagan prompted.

“If those disappearances are the Empire’s doing, then we especially need the Old Gods,” Aerin stated, lips pulling into a frown.

“Fine. If we work together, you can have the other five gods,” the Khagan huffed, putting her hands on her hips. “I just want the White Wolf.”

“And why would we do that?” Iliana demanded. “We could find the Old Gods on our own and have  _ all _ of them. Somehow, I doubt you’ll contribute much to our search.”

The Khagan gave her a tight-lipped smile. “My contribution, elf, is not shooting you off the edge of this cliff,” she replied, waving her hand toward the archers. “It’s your choice.”

Iliana’s fingers tightened around his. A warning. Her next words were as much for him as they were for the Khagan. “And how do we know that you won’t turn and kill us the moment we find the Old Gods?”

He understood her message loud and clear.  _ Do not trust her. Not again. _

“It is as I said before,” the Khagan replied, shrugging her shoulders. “I just want the White Wolf. The others mean nothing to me.”

_ Nothing except unimaginable power, _ Aerin thought. The destruction even  _ one _ god could do… Iliana was right. There was no way they could trust the Khagan. And Aerin knew that the moment they made a deal with the Khagan, she would find some sort of leverage to make sure they did not slip out of it. Aerin’s gaze drifted to Iliana. He had a feeling he knew exactly what the Khagan would hold over him to make sure he complied. Aerin swallowed hard. He wouldn’t risk it, risk  _ her. _ They needed a way out of this, but how? 

_ Think, Aerin. Think. _ He needed to buy himself some time to come up with a way out of this mess, assuming there was one. He could use the Shadow… Aerin’s chest tightened. He had already used so much the last few days and Aerin had an unsettling feeling that if he continued to do so, it would only be a matter of time before―

He banished the thought from his head. He needed to think, and that certainly was not helping.

“Before I even consider your offer, answer two questions for me,” Aerin said, stalling for time as he mulled over their limited options.

“You’re in no position to bargain, Prince,” the Khagan informed him smugly. “But in the interest of building a better relationship between us for the future―fine. Ask them.”

“Where are our friends?” 

She smiled slowly. “Would it make you feel better to hear that I do not know?” She shook her head. “They got away. I cannot promise you that the flames have not gotten them―” She glared at her warriors. “―but my men certainly didn’t.” 

Iliana relaxed. The Khagan’s words were not exactly comforting, but it was something at least. That meant their friends still had a chance.

“Happy?” the Khagan asked snidely.

Aerin was about to respond when his gaze snagged on something high in the sky.  _ That damned bird again. _ Aerin watched as it circled for a moment, then dove into the vast expanse of clouds that drifted below the cliffs. A small hole appeared in the fluff where the great bird had disappeared, and beneath it, Aerin could have sworn he saw…

_ Green. _

Aerin’s heart picked up. Something was tugging at the edge of his mind, an idea. He could almost pull it free―

Iliana gently squeezed his hand, drawing him out of his thoughts. The Khagan was still waiting for his answer. Aerin cleared his throat and smiled tightly. “Quite.”

The Khagan huffed. “Good. And your second question?”

Aerin’s gaze wandered to the edge of the outcropping of rock he and Iliana stood upon, then down the cliffside.

_ At the edge, do not falter. _

Aerin dragged his eyes back up to meet the Khagan’s. “What happened to Captain Ristridin and his men?”

The Khagan looked less pleased to answer this question. “Your men?” she asked.

“My father’s,” Aerin answered and the Khagan shrugged.

“They acted like yours.”

Aerin’s eyes narrowed. Somehow, that did not make him feel better in the slightest. “Answer the question.”

“I don’t know,” the Khagan admitted. “Probably dead. Along with a quarter of my own fighters. Hard to keep a piece of cloth secure in a fight like that.”

That was exactly what he had feared. Aerin felt something in his chest tighten although he fought to keep his posture proud and rigid. Iliana squeezed his hand again, her thumb swiping over his knuckles in a comforting gesture. Aerin wanted to collapse into her but settled for drawing strength from her presence. 

Again, Aerin glanced around, tucking this information about Ristridin and the guard aside to mull over and process later. He studied the cliffside again, then the clouds, and the spot where the bird had disappeared, although the whole had been filled with more condensed vapor.

_ At the edge, do not falter, _

_ Step off into lands unbound, _

_ And hear the song of fire and fury. _

Then, it clicked.  _ Holy gods…  _

Aerin was either absolutely mad and was going to get them killed, or he had just figured out the next part of Kade’s directions. 

Suddenly, that bird burst through the clouds again, revealing another distant patch of green, and for the first time, Aerin realized that it was oddly shaped, the body a bit too long for a bird. It was far larger than any he had ever seen before, and Baldur had brought home a fair share of them as hunting trophies.

“ _ Now _ are you satisfied?” the Khagan demanded, clearly exasperated. Her patience was wearing thin.

Aerin knew what to do. Perhaps he was mad―no, he definitely was. But maybe he had to be a little mad to make this work. 

_ Do not falter. _

Aerin turned to Iliana and she raised her brows at the intensity of his gaze. Aerin squeezed her hand tightly. Once, he would have thought he had no right to ask this of her. And maybe he still did not. But if this morning was any indication, things had changed between them―drastically. So maybe this had, too. “Do you trust me?” 

Iliana answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

In less dire circumstances, Aerin’s heart would have soared. “Good.”

And before she could act, Aerin tugged her close and flung them both over the edge.


	22. The City in the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Step off into lands unbound.

Iliana felt weightless as she fell.

She might have even been screaming but the sound was swallowed by the brutal wind. It howled in her ears, whipping her hair and tearing at her clothes. Iliana saw smoke, and sky, and sunlight before she was claimed by the clouds, water vapor clinging to her skin like the kiss of fresh dew in the morning. The air grew warmer and more humid, as if they were plummeting into the putrid maw of a horrible beast. 

Iliana held onto Aerin’s hand like it was the only thing she’d ever known.

She still could not quite wrap her head around how they got into this situation, plummeting toward gods-knew-what in a fall that would surely be the end of everything she knew. At the back of her screaming mind, Iliana wondered what the hells Aerin had been thinking when he threw himself over the edge of that cliff, dragging her along with him. Because he  _ had _ to be thinking of something, right? Why else would he choose a perilous drop over facing the Khagan’s men?

Iliana felt Aerin’s hand begin to slip from her grasp and panic laced through her, electrifying and violently cold. Iliana desperately tightened her grip around his hand and fought against the gravity to glance over at him. His hazel eyes were wide and insistent as his mouth moved, shouting words that Iliana could not hear over the howling wind. Eventually realizing that Iliana could not understand, his gaze dropped to their hands and Iliana felt his grip slacken.

No.

_ No. _

He was trying to let go.

Iliana shouted his name but it was lost to the skies as Aerin’s hand continued to slide out of hers, the wind tearing them apart. Iliana’s grip slipped from his palm to the base of his fingers, then the second knuckle, the first, and finally, just his fingertips.

Aerin’s hand was ripped from hers and Iliana screamed, just as she slammed against something hard, the air rushing from her lungs as a shadow blocked Aerin from sight.

At first, Iliana thought she had hit the ground, but her bones were very much intact, if not a bit bruised, and the wind still whistled around her―just… not in the same way anymore. She was no longer falling.

She was flying.

Iliana realized with a jolt that the object she had collided with was neither the ground nor a tree but a  _ man _ . Eyes wide with disbelief, Iliana took in the great, arching wings that kept them aloft, covered in chestnut brown and white feathers. She sucked in a sharp breath.

_ The birdmen of the Avian Kingdom. _

On instinct, Iliana jerked in surprise and the arms around her tightened. “Easy,” someone said. “Relax. You’re safe.”

Iliana dragged her gaze from those beautiful wings as they beat against the wind, steering her to some destination she could not see amidst the thick cloud coverage. She turned her attention in the direction of that voice and instead found a sharp beak of steel that curved toward her face almost menacingly, artful curves leading up to dark, gaping eye sockets. A jolt of alarm went through her at the chilling sight, but oddly enough, Iliana did not feel even a twinge of fear. 

Upon closer inspection, Iliana realized that the disturbing visage before her was not the birdman’s face, but a steel mask that resembled the skull of a crow and concealed the upper half of his face―a distinctly human face. In the shadows that loomed behind the eye sockets of the mask, Iliana could just make out a pair of greyish green eyes. 

Strong arms held her beneath her shoulders and knees, covered in leather armor that was embellished with gleaming scale-like plates of steel. The voice that spoke was smooth and baritone, the syllables blending together. Somehow, she heard it clearly through the wind. “You are not afraid.”

No, for some reason, she was not. Perhaps it was because her mind reached its limit in how many strange turns it could process, but Iliana was not afraid of the stranger carrying her, nor the altitude at which they soared. Unsurprisingly, being in the air was much less terrifying when she was flying as opposed to falling. Under different circumstances, Iliana would probably feel overjoyed to be gliding through the skies again, but she had other, more pressing concerns.

“Should I be?” Iliana muttered beneath her breath as she shifted stiffly, doing her best to crane her neck around without accidentally wrestling herself from the birdman’s grasp. “Where’s―”

The man hefted her up, adjusting his grip so that she no longer faced him, but their surroundings. In between thick puffs of vapor, Iliana could just make out another birdman― _ birdwoman? _ Iliana corrected herself, brow knitting. She could not quite tell from this distance, but she supposed it did not really matter to her. What  _ did _ matter was that Aerin was carefully cradled in the woman’s arms. They seemed to be conversing, but Iliana could not even attempt to make out the words.

That pulled on another thread of thought. Iliana turned to face her savior―she supposed she could call the man that; after all, he  _ did _ save her from becoming a big blue stain on the rainforest floor. “My friends. There are more of us up on the…” Iliana did not quite know what to call the scorched forest. “Up there,” she said instead. They’re still up there. The fire―”

“We know,” the birdman replied. “Others have already been sent to search for your companions. I am taking you somewhere safe to wait for their retrieval.”

Relief coursed through Iliana’s veins. Good. That was good. But there was something about what the man had said that unnerved her. Iliana frowned. “You knew?”

“We’ve watched over you for the last day or so,” he replied, unfazed by the curiosity and note of accusation in her voice.

Iliana gaped at him.  _ The bird in the fields…  _ “Why didn’t you do anything sooner?”

“We had to be sure you were worthy.” The birdman pitched forward, angling his body downward as his wings led them into a swift descent. The clouds passed by in a blur of white and grey fluff, gradually thinning out as they went.

“Worthy?” Iliana echoed, brows pinching together. She was not sure she liked the sound of that. “Of what?”

Iliana could have sworn there was a glimmer of mischief in those serious grey-green eyes. “Of continuing on. Of seeing us.”

Before Iliana could ask what the hells that meant, they burst through the clouds. She felt her jaw drop, her face slackening in awe. “Rysoth,” she gasped, wonderstruck. “It’s still here.”

Beneath the cloud coverage, gargantuan trees peppered the landscape, surrounded by lush green foliage. Each tree was large enough to dwarf several of the ones that grew at the edge of the poison fields. In fact, Iliana was certain she could just make out dozens of small structures perched on the great branches, small specks of golden light winking at her through open windows. Other winged beings soared through the skies, flying to and fro between the treetops. It was a spectacular sight.

“I can’t believe it,” Iliana breathed as the birdman soared toward one of the great trees, a hub of bustling activity, even at this time of day. Iliana stared in disbelief for a few more moments before she turned back to the man. “What do you mean ‘worthy’? How can you tell that we… are?”

“You solved the Call,” he explained, then echoed the words that Iliana knew all too well. “ _ ‘At the edge, do not falter, Step off into lands unbound _ .’ They are, as I am sure you gathered, directions.” __

“You know about those lines?” Iliana questioned.  _ The Call?  _ All of this information was starting to make her brain hurt. “Who created those directions? You?”

“No. They were made long before my time. Nobody knows who created them. But we have adhered to them nonetheless for years,” the man said cryptically. “That part is a test, designed to make sure only those who are meant to find Rysoth do. It takes a great deal of bravery to face the unknown and even more to have faith in it.”

Iliana frowned again, glancing over at the woman who carried Aerin. “Faith? Or madness?”

The birdman smiled wryly behind his mask. “Those two often go hand-in-hand, don’t they?” He shook his head and Iliana had to turn her face away to avoid getting scratched by the silver beak. “We have gone to great lengths to guard Rysoth against the eyes and minds of those who seek to do harm.” 

“Guard Rysoth? Why?” Iliana asked, both curious and incredibly confused. “What is here that you are trying to protect?”

“What’s here?” the man parroted, clearly amused by her question. “The very things you seek, Realm-Walker. The Old Gods.”

Iliana’s heart froze in her chest. The Old Gods, they were  _ here. _

She glanced around as if she might spot them wandering around in plain sight, but Iliana only saw more birdmen as she and her rescuer drew close to a network of wooden structures that were built into the tree, balanced atop massive branches that were wider than some of the towers of King Arlan’s palace.

“You have questions, I know,” the man said as they landed on a wooden platform built into the trunk of the tree, beside a small house-like structure with a thatched roof. Iliana’s legs felt unsteady beneath her as she was gently set down.

“And they will be answered in due time,” he continued waving one gloved hand toward the wooden structure as the other gestured behind him. “But for now, I must resume our search for your friends and you should rest while you can. This is the sickbay, but you can use it until a place is set up for you. When everyone is well and present, all will be explained.” 

Having apparently said all that he needed to say, the man started to walk backward, his feathered wings flaring out as he prepared to take to the skies once more.

“Wait!” Iliana blurted. To her surprise, he did. He paused and looked at her, eyes questioning from behind the mask.

For the first time, Iliana got a clear look at the man who had saved her. He was tall―certainly taller than her and Tyril, and probably even Imtura. One glance at the woman that had saved Aerin told her that perhaps the great stature was typical of residents of the Avian Kingdom. As she had noted earlier, the man was oddly armored. He wore leather body armor, but the outsides of his arms and the front of his legs were covered in a row of overlapping metal scales. A green scarf cloaked his head although Iliana could see auburn locks curling around the edges of that menacing mask.

“I don’t―” She shook her head. Everything was happening so fast. “What’s your name?”

The man tilted his head as if he found her question surprising, and with the mask on, the movement was so bird-like, Iliana almost laughed. He answered, “Killian.”

“Killian,” Iliana repeated, trying the name out. She supposed it was only right that she at least knew his name after he saved her life. She glanced behind him, gazing out at the hidden rainforest, lush with dense foliage. Iliana still could not believe this was real. She shifted her attention back to Killian. “Bring my friends back safely. All of them. Please.”

He nodded wordlessly and when Iliana said no more, he turned and stepped off the edge of the platform, chestnut brown and white wings beating against the wind. Immediately after he had gone, Iliana turned, her mind narrowing to one single thought:  _ Aerin. _

He stood at the edge of the platform, gazing out at the scene before them with a mixture of awe and consternation. As if sensing her gaze, Aerin turned to face her. Iliana had no idea what expression characterized her face, but whatever it was made Aerin sheepishly rub the back of his neck. He jutted his thumb toward his own rescuer, who now flew alongside Killian.

“Morrigan,” he said simply, naming the woman.

Iliana blinked at him. “Killian.”

“I told her about Ristridin and his men,” Aerin added, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “I asked her to keep a lookout for them. I know it’s unlikely but… just in case they… you know.”

_ Survived. _

Iliana nodded. “Good.”

They stared at each other for a few moments, the events of the last few hours finally sinking in. Then―

“You  _ threw me off a cliff! _ ” 

Aerin winced. He held up his hands. “I know you’re mad, but―”

Aerin took a step toward her and immediately faltered, swaying to the side, his placating expression slackening into one of pure exhaustion. In an instant, Iliana let go of her anger and confusion and lunged forward, catching him before his knees stuck the ground.

“You’re okay,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around Aerin’s waist and helping him get his legs beneath himself again. “I’ve got you.”

Even through their clothes, Iliana could feel his skin burn, just like it had that day in the mountains.

“Sorry. I’m okay. Just…” Aerin drew in a deep breath as he straightened, although Iliana still did not let go. “Vertigo, that’s all. I’ve never really liked heights.”

Iliana raised a skeptical brow. Funny, how he did not seem to have a problem with heights when they rode the drakes. Iliana refrained from commenting that of all of his lies, that was by far the most obvious.

“Try exhaustion,” Iliana muttered, steering him towards the bungalow Killian had gestured to. “Come on. We should rest. Who knows how long it will be until the others arrive?”

Her arms still wrapped around Aerin’s torso, Iliana used her foot to kick the door open to the sickbay and together, they hobbled inside. Iliana led Aerin to one of the cots that lined the walls and eased him onto the mattress with all of the gentleness she could muster. Iliana did not know how to be nurturing like Nia or her foster mother, Alcmene―she was not even sure that it was in her nature to be so soft and caring―but she certainly tried to do what she could. She fluffed up his pillow, then snatched a blanket from a nearby bed and threw it over him, causing Aerin to huff in amusement.

“I’m tired, not mortally wounded, Iliana,” he said, exasperated as he grabbed her wrist and held her still before she could steal the pillows from the other beds as well. “You’re fussing.”

She wrestled her arm from his grasp and pressed the back of her knuckles to his cheek, then his forehead. Iliana frowned at him. “And you’re burning up.”

“I’m fine,” Aerin insisted and Iliana only narrowed her eyes, doubtful.

Iliana studied his face, taking in the deathlike pallor of his face, the dark rings beneath his eyes―although  _ those  _ could have honestly been from a lack of sleep. She probably had them too. When was the last time they had slept? Iliana realized it had to be the night before last, but even that had been a restless sleep. In fact, that was the night she had nearly died in the poison fields. 

_ So much has happened since then. _

“It’s the Shadow, isn’t it?” Iliana asked softly, pulling her hand away from Aerin’s forehead as she sat beside him on the bed. “That’s what makes you feverish.”

“It’s a side effect,” Aerin explained, not meeting her gaze as his fingers tangled themselves together across his torso. “If I use it too much, it drains me afterward to strengthen itself again. And to grow.”

“Will it ever stop affecting you like this?”

Aerin grimaced, his brows drawing together. “Yes.”

Iliana would have thought that was a good thing, but it was the way he spoke that made her believe otherwise. She swallowed, then reached out to pull his hands apart so that she could lace her fingers with his. “When?”

“When it can’t grow anymore, I suppose.” Aerin shrugged, although the movement carried none of the nonchalance it was supposed to convey. “When it’s in control.”

“It didn’t do this to you before, did it?” she questioned, working her jaw. “The… first time?”

Aerin shook his head. “It was much more gradual. I, ah,  _ cultivated _ the Shadow over a long period of time. The steps of progression were incredibly minute. I had to get acquainted with it, learn how to use it, get it to work with me. I didn’t even know I was corrupted until, well, I was. But even then, I didn’t really think I was. I was just…”

“You?” Iliana offered, pressing her lips together.

Aerin looked up at her, and the shame she saw in his eyes was nearly tangible. He nodded slowly. “Yes.” He sighed and glanced away again, gazing toward the sickbay windows, which were not covered with glass, but removable panels of woven wood. “Me, but with power. Control.”

A short silence fell between them, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Iliana squeezed his hand once before releasing it. “You should rest.”

“So should you,” Aerin replied as she stood, but when she did not move to climb into one of the beds, his voice turned disapproving. “Iliana.”

She crossed the sickbay to stand at the window by the door. She removed the woven panel and carefully set it aside to gaze out at the Avian Kingdom. Her eyes traveled over the thick canopy that stretched between the smaller trees far below them, lush with an abundance of leaves and colorful flowers. Iliana was not sure she had ever seen so much vibrant greenery anywhere in Morella, or a forest so lively. She still could not quite believe that they had actually found Rysoth, that the birdmen of legend were real and she had even  _ spoken _ to one. It was incredible, truly. But Iliana’s real focus was on the skies. 

She scanned the scene before her, searching for any sign of her friends’ arrival―birdmen swooping in from above with one of her companions in tow. Absently, Iliana noted how odd it was to see clouds low enough to skim the tops of trees and thick enough to blot out the sun. She wondered if the cloud coverage was natural or manufactured, although how that was possible, she did not know. Magic perhaps, but she had no knowledge of any that could do such a thing―Tyril probably did, though. She also did not know if the birdmen had an affinity for magic.

“Iliana,” Aerin said as she lingered by the window, reluctant to part from the spot. Her friends could arrive at any moment and Iliana did not want to miss it. “ _ Iliana.” _

She forced herself to turn and saw that Aerin was glaring at her. She raised her brows in silent question.  _ What? _

His gaze flattened, unamused. “You are a hypocrite, Iliana Nightbloom.”

That startled a surprised laugh out of her. “Excuse me?”

“You just fussed over me getting some rest and yet there you are standing guard, dead on your feet,” Aerin pointed out dryly. “You need to rest, too.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

Iliana sighed. “Aerin―”

Aerin tossed the blanket aside and swung his legs over the side. “I’m going to get out of bed and join you over there if you don’t―”

“ _ No, _ ” Iliana said quickly before exhaling heavily. “Fine.”

Aerin laid back, a smug smile on his face as she retreated toward him, although his expression quickly fell as he took in her concerned expression. “I know you’re worried. I am too. But someone will tell us when they arrive, I’m sure of it. They’ll probably even be brought here like we were.”

Iliana frowned. “I know but―”

“But there’s nothing we can do about anything until then,” Aerin interjected, giving her a knowing look. “Neither of us can fly and staring out that window isn’t going to bring them here any faster.”

Iliana hated to admit it, but― 

“You’re right,” she muttered, divesting herself of her weapons and setting them carefully on the ground. Iliana moved to climb into the cot next to Aerin’s when his arm snaked out, fingers curling around her wrist once more and tugging gently until her knees bumped the edge of his bed frame.

Iliana lifted a brow, understanding his silent request. “Aerin, there are other beds. At least a dozen.”

Aerin glanced around and shrugged. “Yes, well, I want you in this one.”

Despite herself, Iliana felt her cheeks warm. “It’s too small.”

He shifted himself over, making just enough room for her to lay beside him.

“Aerin,” she said disapprovingly, although honestly, Iliana did not know why she even tried to pretend like she had not already made up her mind.

Aerin looked at her for a few moments, then shrugged, releasing her hand. “Okay.”

But before he reclaimed his space, Iliana clambered onto the cot and stretched out beside him. Aerin’s brows rose, then his lips relaxed into a soft smile as she slung her arm over his him and pressed close. It was a tight fit and for a moment, Iliana wondered if she should have at least pushed two cots together for more space. But then Aerin leaned in to rest his head in the crook of her shoulder, his hair tickling the edge of her jaw and neck, and Iliana found that she did not mind the small space at all. Looking at him now, feeling the solid weight of his arm wrapped around her waist, Iliana thought that perhaps it was impossible to know Aerin and not love him.

Iliana’s breath hitched ever so slightly.  _ Love. _

_ That  _ was not a word she had been expecting her mind to dredge up, not for a long while at least.

As if sensing her unease, Aerin’s hand pressed against her back, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the notches in her spine. “Rest.”

_ Right. _ Iliana could think about…  _ that _ later.

Iliana sighed almost contentedly and laid her chin against the top of Aerin’s head and closed her eyes. Just as Iliana thought she was about to drift off into sleep, Aerin mumbled, “I’m sorry I threw you over the side of a cliff.”

Iliana snorted, shoving Aerin’s shoulder. “Sorry? I’m sure you are.”

She felt him smile against her neck, his arms tightening around her. “I will warn you next time.”

“ _ There will be no ‘next time _ ,’” Iliana snapped, although there was no anger in her voice. She squirmed away from him, but Aerin’s arms wouldn’t budge. 

His breath caressed her skin as he chuckled, then said, “Fine. No ‘next time.’” 

“How did you know? That jumping would work?”

Aerin shrugged modestly. “I was desperate for a solution and pieces just suddenly clicked. I didn’t know for certain but… it was a gamble. I didn’t want to make any deals with the Khagan.”

“Smart,” she commented. They would have surely been betrayed.

“You thought the same thing,” Aerin replied. “You didn’t want me to make a deal either.”

“Like I said. Smart.” Iliana smirked and Aerin laughed lightly. A short silence passed before Iliana spoke again, voice sober, “I’m worried about them.”

“So am I,” Aerin admitted, his tone troubled. Aerin pulled back to kiss her cheek, then laid his head on the pillow beside hers. He inhaled deeply, his chest swelling against hers as he murmured, “Sleep, Iliana.”

And despite all of her troubles, she did.

* * *

Iliana did not dream, and for that, she was grateful, for when she woke, she found herself in a new sort of nightmare.

The door to the sickbay banged open, nearly flying off its hinges as a group of people bustled in, shouting orders. Iliana jerked awake, slamming her forehead into Aerin’s chin and drawing a groggy grunt of dismay from both of them. Iliana shoved herself up to her elbows, instinctively reaching over the side of the cot for the Blade of Sol before she finally got her bearings. Iliana’s face crumpled, and a small, broken noise slipped free from the back of her throat.

“Iliana!” Tyril cried as she stumbled out of bed and rushed toward the incoming party. Tyril met her, his hair singed and skin stained with soot, just like the rest of them. He caught Iliana in a hug, relief evident in every line of his body as he crushed him to her. “Thank the gods you’re safe. Both of you.”

Iliana clung to him, her heart hurling itself against her ribcage, relief flooding her veins. “Where are the others? What happened?” 

“They’re on their way,” Tyril answered, releasing Iliana to clasp Aerin’s arm as the prince joined them to hear the news. “They had to stay behind and wait for the other birdmen to get us while Mal and I were taken first by the degree of urgency.”

“Degree of urgency?” Iliana’s brows knit together as her gaze shifted from him to the other figure in the room. “You and― _ Mal!” _

Iliana lunged for him but Tyril held her back as Killian crossed through the sickbay, carrying an unconscious and badly burned Mal toward one of the cots. His clothes were torn and scorched, many of his sheaths were emptied of their blades, and his  _ arms _ ―Iliana felt nauseous just looking at the raw, bloodied skin.

“Give him space,” Tyril told her gently, his arms barred across her shoulders to stop her from rushing to Mal’s side. “We all got separated in the forest when the Khagan’s men found us. We spent most of the day trying to regroup. We’d only just discovered Mal in a burning thicket before we were found. He must have fallen unconscious during the flight over.”

Killian gently laid Mal out on the mattress before turning back toward the doorway. There, the woman Aerin had identified as Morrigan stood at the head of a cluster of six other birdmen, all dressed in that odd armor and those unnerving half-faced crow masks. “Morrigan―get Borte. The rest of you, get the other healers.”

Behind her mask, Morrigan’s green eyes widened as the other birdmen left without another word. “Borte? But―”

“This man is gravely injured and he needs Borte,” Killian said sharply, his voice authoritative but measured. “ _ Now. _ She will need to meet with them anyway.”

She huffed. “You don’t give me orders, Killian. Not yet.”

Killian’s tone grew exasperated.  _ “Morrigan.” _

“Fine,” she retorted, turning on her heel, wings of coppery brown rustling to express her discontent. “But if she hexes me for interrupting whatever voodoo stuff she’s doing, it’s  _ your _ fault.”

Morrigan stomped out of the sickbay and onto the wooden platform before leaping off the edge, wings carrying her out into the night.

“My sister,” Killian sighed once Morrigan was gone. He gently took Mal’s wrist, monitoring his pulse and pushed back his mask so that it now sat atop his head, exposing the rest of his face at last. He had a long face, all narrow angles and sharp edges, although it was certainly not unpleasant. Auburn hair that was the exact shade of vibrant heartoak leaves in the autumn curled around his neck. Iliana distantly thought that he would easily make the young men and women of Riverbend swoon.

But Iliana wasn’t thinking about that. She tore herself from Tyril’s embrace and rushed to Mal’s side. He was still unconscious, but his chest rose and fell steadily. Iliana’s stomach churned at the grisly sight of Mal’s fire-ravaged arms. The burns went all the way from his hands to his shoulders, as if he had thrown his arms up to shield himself from the flames.  _ Oh, gods, Mal. _

Iliana rolled up her sleeves and let her hands hover above Mal’s burned skin as she called upon the Light.

Across from her, Killian’s eyes widened, a warning on his lips. “Wait, don’t―”

Iliana’s Light flared, a manifestation of pure magic that knocked her backward, her elbows striking the wooden floors with a loud thud.

“Iliana!” Aerin shouted, and instantly, he was by her side, helping her up. He whirled on Killian, demanding, “What the hells was that?”

“I did try to warn you,” he replied wearily, eyes anxiously flicking to the doorway, awaiting the healers and whoever this Borte person was. When no one appeared, he shifted, tucking his wings in tighter behind his back and checked Mal’s pulse again. “Your magic is more volatile here. It’s because we’re so close to the Cave. Your Light will be stronger, wilder, so it takes a bit more effort to control it. Borte will explain after she takes care of your friend.”

_ The Cave? Borte?  _ Iliana opened her mouth to question him further when she heard Tyril grunt softly from behind them.

Iliana twisted around in time to see Tyril sway and catch himself against the wall of the infirmary. For the first time, Iliana noticed the way Tyril stood, leaning his weight to his right side. When she looked down, she saw that his left pant leg was stained with blood. “Tyril!”

“You should sit,” Aerin advised and he and Iliana quickly ushered Tyril to sit on a nearby cot. Iliana knelt beside Tyril’s leg and hastily yanked up the hem of his pants. Tyril jerked and hissed through his teeth, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the mattress and snarled something in elvish.

Iliana winced, grimacing at the grisly sight as Aerin swore beside her. It looked as if something or  _ someone _ had taken a chunk out of his leg. “ _ Gods _ , Tyril.”

“Took an axe to the leg,” he grunted, painstakingly uncurling his fingers one by one.

“Why didn’t you heal yourself?” Iliana questioned, eyes wide. “Why didn’t you or Nia heal Mal?”

“I  _ did _ heal myself,” he muttered. “Several times. Until I couldn’t anymore. We’re all running low on energy, Iliana.”

There was a series of thuds on the wooden platform outside, then a shuddering sob. “Mal!”

The moment she was set down, Nia rushed into the sickbay. Her clothes were charred and shredded, but Iliana noted with no small amount of relief that she appeared to be mostly unharmed. Imtura and Threep followed as Nia threw herself on the ground beside Mal just as Iliana had done moments ago, her hands glowing silver as she held them above his arms.

Again, Killian reached out to stop her with a gloved hand. “Now, wait just a moment―”

But there was no need. Nia’s Light barely sparked between her fingertips, her magic fizzling out like a dying candle.

“No,” she cried, shaking out her wrists and trying again. “No, no, no.” She gripped the glittering pendant of her necklace with one hand as she laid the other gently on Mal’s shoulder. “Come on.”

Iliana frowned, her chest tightening almost painfully. She’d never seen Nia so distraught. One look at Tyril told her he was thinking the same thing. Imtura stepped forward, hand outstretched to grab her shoulder and pull her away. “Nia… You’re exhausted.”

Threep landed on her shoulder, tail curling around her upper arm. “You’ll burn yourself out like this.”

“No!” Nia shook her head, shrugging off Imtura’s touch and trying again. “I can do this. I can help him. It’s  _ Mal _ ―”

“Save your Light, girl. Your body knows your limits better than your mind.”

Everyone turned to see a small figure with wiry gray hair hobble through the door, arms laden with a basket filled with bowls, jars full of strange powders, candles, and herbs. Big yellow eyes stared back at them from behind a pair of round bifocals, magnified exponentially by the thick, warbled glass.

Beside Iliana, Aerin’s lips parted in surprise. “You’re… a dwarf.”

Those yellow eyes narrowed as the dwarf-woman growled, “And what of it?”

“I… nothing,” Aerin replied, shaking his head as he did his best not to gape in awe. Not that Iliana could blame him. She had heard legends of the dwarves and the arcane magic they practiced in the wastelands of Zaradun although she never expected she would ever get the chance to meet one, much less here in Rysoth.

_ Rysoth, birdmen, and dwarves. _ Could this day get any more bizarre?

Iliana had a feeling that it just might.

“Borte,” Killian said by way of greeting. “I didn’t expect you to arrive so quickly but I appreciate it nonetheless.”

“Your sister didn’t give me much of a choice,” Borte grumbled glaring over her shoulder at Morrigan, who lingered near the doorway, watching quietly. Her steel mask hung from her gloved fingers, exposing her face. Iliana could see the resemblance between her and Killian―sharp, hawklike features, a freckled complexion, and bright, coppery hair. The only difference between them was Morrigan’s eyes, which were a brighter green than Killian’s muted ones.

Borte approached Mal’s cot and made a shooing motion with her foot toward Nia. “Move, Light-Bringer.”

Nia’s brows drew together, lips scowling, and jaw clenching in defiance. “Excuse me?”

“I said  _ move,” _ Borte repeated, unfazed. “Do you want me to heal him or not?”

Nia hesitated, then nodded. Iliana lifted her arm for Nia as the priestess wordlessly dragged herself away from Mal and folded herself into Iliana’s side, sniffling. Iliana gave her a reassuring squeeze. “I’m glad you’re okay, Nia.”

“But he’s not,” Nia murmured and Iliana frowned.

“He will be.” She hoped. 

“Come here and help me, Morrigan,” Borte ordered gruffly, setting down her supplies. “The rest of you―just stay out of my way.” 

The rest of the party did as instructed, giving Borte and Morrigan enough space to do… whatever it was they were doing. Iliana sat down on one of the mattresses, holding Nia in a comforting embrace as Aerin quietly caught Tyril and Imtura up on everything that had happened with the Khagan, and they in turn recounted their time in the burning forest. Meanwhile, Borte directed Morrigan to place candles around Mal’s unconscious form as she ground herbs with a mortar and pestle and sprinkled in pinches of those mysterious powders. 

As they worked, the other healers arrived, more birdmen. Although these did not don the armor, green uniforms, and steel masks that Killian, Morrigan, and the rescuers had. Instead, they were dressed casually, in tunics and trousers, although some had red strips of cloth tied around their upper arms. Iliana assumed that those were meant to mark them as healers. 

Unlike Borte and Morrigan, their methods were much more conventional and did not appear to involve magic, or the set up for magic, at all. Instead, they created poultices and sterilized needles for stitching. One healer cleaned Tyril’s wound, applied some sort of tonic that made him grit his teeth, covered it with layers of cotton pads, and applied pressure to staunch the bleeding. Another worked at stitching up a gash in Imtura’s bicep.

Threep sat in her lap, a comforting presence as Imtura haltingly petted him. “Thanks, Threep,” Imtura said lowly. “I’m not big on needles.”

“Nia?” Aerin said softly, reaching out to gently touch the priestess’ shoulder. “You should take a look at what the healers are doing. Their practices here are not so different from those at Whitetower. If you ask, maybe one of them will let you help while we wait for Borte to finish setting up to help Mal.”

Nia straightened, wiping at her bleary eyes as she glanced between Mal, Aerin, and the healers, uncertainty clear in her gaze. “I don’t know…”

“Go, Nia,” Iliana encouraged her, nudging her arm. “Mal’s hanging on just fine right now. You’ll know if anything changes. We’re all still in the same room. And I’ll keep watch.”

Nia hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

Iliana watched her go, waiting until Nia had fully invested herself in helping one of the healers apply a salve to Imtura’s less severe burns, before turning back to Aerin and patting the spot beside her on the bed. “Did you even sleep?”

“Like the dead,” Aerin replied as he sat beside her, although Iliana noticed that there was now a carefully maintained distance between them, as if he was leaving it up to her to decide how much the others knew.

Iliana thought about it for a moment, then decided she did not give a damn. She reached out and slipped her fingers through his, pulling their hands into her lap. “You don’t look any more rested than you did before.”

If anything, he looked  _ worse. _ Aerin looked cold and bloodless, his complexion grey and waxy, revealing veins that webbed beneath―a body set out for too long. It was a small comfort to note that Aerin’s veins were bluish-green as opposed to depthless black. 

Aerin smiled wryly, brushing his thumb over the back of her knuckles. “Thank you. You are too kind, flattering me with your sweet words.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Iliana said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t make a stink about it. You’re still a pretty princeling.”

Aerin arched a brow, some color rising in his cheeks. “So you think I’m pretty.”

Iliana’s lip quirked in amusement.  _ When did you get so bold? _ She shook her head. “The prettiest.”

Aerin’s blush darkened and he glanced away. “You  _ are _ too kind.”

Iliana wondered if she would ever tire of making him blush.  _ Probably not. _

“But seriously,” Iliana said, dropping the teasing cadence of her voice as she reached out and pushed some of his hair out of his face. As her fingers brushed his forehead, she realized his skin was still too warm. “You look like you’re going to knock out any minute now.”

“You know why,” Aerin said quietly, offering her a resigned but sorrowful smile.

Iliana’s brows lowered and she pulled her hand away. “Aerin―”

“That’s enough,” Borte barked, stopping Morrigan as she applied some sort of thick pale paste to Mal’s burns. “Save the rest for later,” she instructed, shooing her away.

It appeared as though Borte’s preparations were just about finished up and Iliana took in the scene with no small amount of interest and confusion. There were several candles arranged around Mal’s cot, their placement seemingly random, although judging by Borte’s earlier squabbling, Iliana knew it was not. But the most peculiar thing about these candles was not their placement, but their  _ flames _ . They were a bright, startling blue. Iliana’s brows drew together. She had not seen the dwarf woman use any magic to conjure such fire. Perhaps it was the candles themselves.

“What is she doing?” Nia questioned as she came to stand beside Iliana once more, her voice barely loud enough for her and Aerin to hear.

“Magic,” Borte replied and Nia startled slightly, eyes widening. “Pay attention, Light-Bringer. They don’t show you this in the temples.”

Nia glanced to Iliana, her expression bewildered and unnerved. Iliana saw the silent question in her eyes.  _ How did she hear me? _

Iliana pursed her lips and shrugged. This day was by far the strangest Iliana had ever had. By this point, she had learned that it was easier to just accept everything that happened.

As if on cue, the other healers packed up their supplies and left without another word, an obvious haste in their movements, as if they did not want to witness what came next.

Everyone that remained watched with bated breath as Borte bustled around Mal, double-checking all of her preparations and adjusting them as necessary. Seemingly satisfied, Borte stood at the head of Mal’s cot, a single unlit candle in her hand. She held it up with a flourish, as if she were presenting it to some invisible audience. Then she lowered her arm and tilted the candle toward the flame of another.

_ “Hasarias,”  _ Borte whispered, then dipped the candle wick into the flame.

A phantom wind swept into the infirmary, swirling around and stirring Iliana’s hair. The blue candles wavered like flags, nearly guttering out before burning even higher and brighter than before. Iliana felt the hair on the back of her arms and neck stand on end.

Nia gasped. “I can feel it. The Light. It’s everywhere.”

Aerin’s fingers tightened around Iliana’s hand and he jerked his chin. “Look.”

Iliana’s gaze shifted from the candles to Mal. She sucked in a sharp breath. The white paste Morrigan had applied spread itself thin across Mal’s burns, seemingly moving on its own accord. It seeped into the raw flesh, and then, Mal’s wounds began to knit themselves together. New, flawless skin regenerated, replacing the brutal burns. Within minutes, Mal’s arms were completely healed, with not even a scratch to show for the pain he had endured. He was still unconscious, but his breathing was unburdened and even, as if he was simply lost in a deep but harmless sleep.

“By the Light,” Tyril breathed from where he sat nearby. “I’d always heard about the magical practices of Zaradun. We’ve tried to replicate them in Undermount, but no one has ever been successful.”

“And they never will be,” Borte snapped, blowing out the candles. “It takes years of training to understand our practices, and there is a reason we have kept them from you zealots.”

Iliana and Tyril shared an apprehensive look, but wisely said nothing.

“How is that…” Nia spluttered, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly. “You did not even call upon the Light! But I felt it!”

“Don’t do what you can convince the magic to do for you,” Borte replied as she began to repack her candles and bowls into her basket.

Iliana did not understand a lick of what Borte had said, but Nia was looking at the dwarf-woman with a mixture of awe and reverence, as if she had just been told for the first time that magic exists. “Wow…”

As if sensing her confusion, Aerin leaned in and quietly explained. “She’s not using any of her own life to direct the magic. She just set up a ritual, and―invited it? Convinced it?―to act on its own will to her benefit.”

“Well aren’t you a smart one,” Borte grunted as she stilled and turned to face Aerin, her yellow eyes appraising. Iliana wondered if she had some sort of preternatural hearing like the elves did. The dwarf woman looked him up and down, studying him with such intensity, even Iliana felt her stare. “Perceptive for a human.” Borte sniffed and her eyes narrowed, brows drawing together. “Hmm.”

“Um.” Aerin glanced at Iliana and she saw that even he did not know what to make of this woman, nor did he know how to deal with her.

But Borte merely grunted, then resumed packing her supplies. When she was finished, she handed her basket off to Morrigan and turned to face the rest of the group. “So. You’re the next party of fools that aspires to find the Old Gods.”

Imtura bristled. “Hey. Where do you get off calling us―”

“It’s not my business to stop you,” Borte continued as if Imtura had never even spoken. “I will tell you everything that I know, just as I did with the last boy that came through, and the few that came before.”

Iliana sucked in a sharp breath, her heart starting to race. “The last boy,” she said quickly, before Borte could say anything else. “What did he look like? When did he come through?”

“A few days ago.” It was Killian who answered, speaking up for the first time in a while. He had been so silent, lingering in the background like his sister, Iliana had forgotten he was there. How she had managed to ignore the winged monolith of a man was beyond her. Iliana was astounded by how quickly she had become accustomed to the presence of the birdmen of legends  _ and _ this grumpy dwarf.

He held up his hand so that it made a line some distance beneath his shoulder. “About this tall. “Dark brown hair. Green eyes. Kind of scrawny.”

“Holy gods,” Iliana breathed. Aerin’s fingers tightened around hers.  _ Kade. _

“That’s your brother, alright,” Imtura muttered, pounding Iliana jovially on the back.

But all Iliana could hear over the sound of her rushing blood and thumping heart was,  _ He’s alive.  _ The noise that came out of her was a cross between a laugh and a sob. In other circumstances, Iliana might have been embarrassed by it

“Brother, eh?” Borte asked, raising a thick, grey brow. “He talked about you. Failed to mention all of your blubbering.”

“Where is he?” Aerin asked for Iliana as she wiped at her blurry eyes and fought to regain her composure. “Is he still here?”

“No,” Borte replied. “He arrived a few days ago, stayed one night, long enough to rest up, then set off for the Cave. Didn’t say much about anything.”

Iliana frowned. “You just let him go?”

“I’m not a babysitter, girl,” Borte snapped, her tone acerbic, and Iliana scowled.

“Most people return within three days,” Killian added, crossing his arms and shifting restlessly, as if he could not bear to stand still for so long. “It has been at least five. Perhaps your brother found what he was looking for.”

Borte scoffed, shaking her head. “He’s not the one.”

Iliana stiffened, eyes narrowing. “How do you know?”

“I just do. Trust me,” Borte said. “I know. Better than anyone. I have a knack for knowing what those miserable Old Gods want, and that boy was not it. If he’s not back by now, it’s not because he found them. It’s because he’s dead.”

Everything in Iliana recoiled at that. She slipped her hand from Aerin’s, fingers balling into fists. “What―”

“What about us?” Aerin asked swiftly, cutting Iliana off. He sent her a look to stand down, although his fingers brushed comfortingly against her forearm. “Do you think that we might be able to find them?”

Borte was silent for a few moments as her yellow eyes roamed over the group assembled before her, her gaze so sharp, it could cut them down to the bone. She studied them all in turn, lips pressed into a thin, wrinkled line. Again, her eyes narrowed when they fell across Aerin, but it was Iliana she stared with piercing interest at as she answered, “Maybe.”

Iliana’s stomach flipped. She did not know what to make of that. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Killian stiffen and caught the private look he shared with his sister. 

What did  _ that _ mean?

“I’m sure you all have questions, and I’ll admit I am a bit curious to find out  _ why _ you want to find the Old Gods and how you came across the Call,” Borte said as she made for the exit of the sickbay. “We can discuss all of that, but not here. I need to get these supplies back into storage before I blow us out of the Aerie. Killian will lead you to my workshop. I―” Borte froze, eyeing Tyril’s bandaged leg. She clucked her tongue. “That won’t do.”

She and Morrigan knelt beside Tyril’s injured leg and began to unwrap the gauze that bound his wound. When it was exposed once more, Borte dug into her basket of supplies until she found what she seemed to be searching for: a jar containing some sort of slimy green moss. She opened the jar and Iliana cringed as the dwarf scooped some of the moss out and promptly put the slimy mass into her mouth and chewed.

“Um…” For the first time, Tyril looked uncertain.

Then, Borte spat the green moss into her hand, which was now even slimier than before, and slapped it onto Tyril’s wound. He jerked, swearing low in elvish and Nia let out a startled noise. 

“Is that… sterile?” Nia wondered aloud and Borte glared at her.

“What are you suggesting, girl?” Borte snapped and Nia quickly shook her head.

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought,” the dwarf grunted, then gestured to Morrigan. “Do it.”

Morrigan nodded, then used a small firestarter to light a small stick. Once it was lit, she held it against the moss.

Tyril’s eyes widened. “Oh!” 

In an instant, the lumpy mass of chewed moss burned away, leaving only smooth, silvery scar tissue behind. 

“May not heal as nicely as Light healing, but it works in a pinch,” Borte muttered as she stood, wiping her hands on her tunic. She nodded to Killian. “Meet us at my workshop.” Then, ignoring the awestruck expressions of Iliana and her friends, she made for the sickbay exit. “Come, Morrigan.”

Morrigan, who certainly seemed to dislike taking orders from Killian, clearly had no qualms about following Borte’s instruction. She nodded to the rest of the party, then slid her mask back into place and met the dwarf woman on the outer platform, scooping her into her arms and leaping her off the edge.

In the bewildered silence that lingered in their wake, Iliana and her companions gazed at each other, at a complete loss for words. What the hells was even happening?

Tyril laughed uneasily. “She’s…”

“A real bottle of sunlight, that one,” Imtura muttered, poking at the neat row of stitches in her arm and wincing. “I like her.”

“Borte is… a character,” Killian said almost apologetically as he pushed away from the wall he had been leaning against and made toward the exit. “Come. I will take you to her workshop and show you the Aerie on our way.”

The group stood, Tyril marveling at his fully functional leg. Only Nia did not move to go. “I think I… I think I will stay behind,” she explained, glancing between the door and Mal. “Just in case he wakes up.”

Imtura frowned. “Don’t you want to see―”

“It’s okay, Nia,” Iliana told her, patting her shoulder. She had a feeling that nothing could convince the priestess to move from her spot. “You can see the Aerie later.”

Nia opened her mouth, then settled for a firm nod, her gratitude clear in the gesture.

“I will stay too,” Threep decided, fluttering from his perch on Imtura’s shoulder to curl into Nia’s side.

“Very well,” Killian shrugged. “I will have someone come find you when your rooms are prepared.  _ If _ you choose to use it. You are, of course, welcome to stay here if you’d like.” He turned to everyone else. “The rest of you, follow me if you will.”

Everyone bid Nia a quick goodbye before following Killian out of the sickbay and into the night.

“Wow,” Iliana breathed, studying the network of buildings set into the great tree, windows lit up to ward against the darkness. When they had first arrived, she had been too busy trying to comprehend the existence of this place to really appreciate the ingenuity and the simple beauty of the community. “It’s incredible.”

“Welcome the Aerie,” Killian said, smiling slightly as everyone marveled at the sight. He led them off the platform and toward a long bridge constructed of wood and rope that connected the sickbay to another cluster of buildings on another massive branch. As they crossed the bridge, Aerin nudged her arm and nodded toward a strange contraption―a box-like object that was being pulled through the gaps in the branches.

“What is that?” Iliana gaped, squinting at the mechanism. “Is it operated by magic?”

“No.” Aerin shook his head, then lifted his arm to point at a series of ropes looped over a wheel mounted on a thick branch at the top of the tree. “See those pulleys? I think that’s how it works. A counterbalance is used to lift that box for transport.”

“Studying the lifts?” Killian asked from the head of the group. “It’s how my people get around our tree.”

“But you have wings,” Tyril pointed out, waving his hand at the indicated lift and the bridge they walked across. “What use is any of this to you?”

“Well, not all of us can fly,” Killian answered. “Younglings who haven’t gotten control of their wings yet, the elderly, the injured. They have to get around some time.” He laughed lightly. “We used to have ladders, can you believe that? Imagine having to climb all the way from the forest floor. It was actually Borte who designed our lifts back when she first came to us. Some people fear her and her arcane magic, although most are appreciative of her presence.”

“When was that?” Aerin asked. “When did she come here?”

“About, hmm, a century ago?” Killian guessed, his wings lifting and falling as he shrugged. “I’m not sure. It happened long before I was born.”

“Wow,” Imtura whistled. “So she’s  _ old. _ ” She glanced at Tyril, bumping his side with her elbow. “Say, are you older than a century?”

Tyril glared at her. “I’m not answering that.”

Iliana huffed a laugh, glancing over at Aerin to gauge his reaction, but he only frowned and looked away. Iliana’s amusement quickly faded.

“How  _ did  _ Borte come to live in Rysoth?” Aerin questioned, his head tilted the way it always did whenever he found something to be exceptionally fascinating. “Zaradun is not exactly close. Are there more dwarves that live here?” 

Killian shook his head. “Borte is the only one. As for how she came here… well, she was just like you. She was looking for the Old Gods.”

Iliana huffed.  _ That _ explained her sour attitude about Kade. “Let me guess, she didn’t find them, and she’s pissed about it.”

Killian gave her a look of warning, although his lips smiled kindly. “I wouldn’t let her hear you say that. The details of her story are hers to indulge, but yes. She did not find them. Her quest ended in the Cave. And instead of going back to Zaradun, she stayed here. She is not the only one to do so.”

“So there are others?” Iliana asked.

“There were. Everyone that has chosen to stay here in Rysoth has since passed, with Borte as the exception.” 

“This Cave you speak of,” Tyril said, eyes narrowing. “I presume that is where you all believe these Old Gods can be found?”

Killian nodded. “Yes. They can be.”

“But no one has found them there,” Tyril stated flatly. “So how can you be certain that that is where they reside?”

Killian shook his head. “Trust me. When you enter the Cave and see it for yourself, you will understand that there is no other place that they could be. The location is correct. It is just a matter of whether the Old Gods choose to make themselves known to you.”

“So you’ve been there?” Aerin asked. “To this cave?”

“I have.” Killian nodded. “I felt their presence, but they did not show themselves.”

As they continued on, Killian pointed out various structures―the tailor’s studio, the butcher’s shop, the blacksmith’s workshop, and so on. It appeared that an entire city was built into this tree. Iliana gazed out at the rainforest, her wonder barely disguised. Winged shadows soared through the sky, backlit by the moon.

Her breath hitched.  _ The moon. _

“The sky,” she breathed, staring at the sea of stars that spanned overhead. “We can… see it.”

Killian nodded as if this was unsurprising. “The Mist is gone. That means any who seek Rysoth have turned away.”

Aerin’s footsteps faltered. “You mean… the clouds are…  _ sentient?” _

Killian let out a startled laugh. “ _ No. _ The cloud coverage is a manipulation of the Light, or perhaps even the Old Gods themselves. It is how Rysoth and the Cave have stayed hidden for so long.”

“Wow,” Iliana said simply, for she had nothing better to say. “The Old Gods  _ really _ do not want to be found.”

“By the right person, they do,” Killian said, glancing back at Iliana with a hint of curiosity. “I have seen Borte meet with many travelers, all of whom left the Cave empty-handed, as she predicted. But you are the first group she seemed to have any hope for. Or at least the first group she did not completely dismiss.”

“Is that so?” Imtura lifted a brow, crossing her arms. “As she should. We’ve got a knack for making the impossible work.”

Killian smiled at that. “Well, I certainly wish you luck.” He stopped on the catwalk in front of a small hut. “Well, here we are. Borte’s workshop. Or lab. Or apothecary. Whatever you choose to call it. She does it all.”

“Have you finally arrived, Killian?” someone grumbled from inside. There was a clattering noise, then the sound of heavy footsteps. The door swung open, and in unison, everyone’s attention dropped to where Borte stood. She glared up at them for a few long moments, her yellow eyes gleaming. Then she huffed and stepped aside. “Come in. We have much to discuss.”


	23. Trailblazer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions, answers, and more questions.

It was a test of restraint not to touch everything in sight. 

Aerin felt like a child in a confectionery store. Amidst all of the fragrant herbs, colorful powders, roots, and other strange items kept in jars, there were all sorts of odd trinkets littering the short worktables that populated Borte’s cluttered workshop.

Aerin, Iliana, Imtura, and Tyril silently stood at the center of Borte’s shop, trying not to accidentally knock something out of place and disrupt the contained chaos Borte preferred to operate in. Killian leaned against the door, his wings tucked in tightly around him, like a feather cocoon. His sister, Morrigan, leaned against the opposite wall, cleaning under her nails with a long, curved knife. Meanwhile, the dwarf woman bustled about the shop, tossing all sorts of ingredients into a large cauldron that bubbled over her fireplace.

Borte rolled a sprig of some sort of dried purple herb between her fingers and clucked her tongue in dismay, tossing it aside. “That won’t do. Morrigan, pass me the agrimony and comfrey. I’ll have to make do with that instead.”

Morrigan scanned the cabinets next to her, then plucked a bundle of weeds and a small pouch of crushed herbs off a shelf, shifting to toss them underhandedly.

“Throw those ingredients, girl,” Borte cautioned her, the threat clear in her voice, “and I will pluck your feathers for my winter coat. My apprentice knows better than to be so careless.”

_ Careless? _ Aerin mused, glancing around the cramped workshop. Aerin wondered if it was worth mentioning that all it would take was one stumble or even a particularly strong gust of wind, and everything would go crashing to the floor. But then he realized that if he valued his life at all, he should keep his mouth shut around Borte.

Morrigan clenched her jaw but nodded and carefully handed Borte the agrimony and comfrey as asked. From across the room, Killian snorted. “If only you took my orders so well, Morrigan.”

“I don’t take your orders because you don’t have a right to give me them,” Morrigan snapped back. “You aren’t Wing Leader, yet. I’m not out of the running.”

“Trust me, I know,” her brother replied, rolling his eyes. “You won’t let me forget it.”

“You’re such a―”

“If you two are going to squabble, do it somewhere else!” Borte snapped, pulling the wooden spoon from the brew and waving it menacingly. “I’ll not have you two turn this place into a pile of rubble with your grappling. Half of these ingredients will burn this whole tree to the ground if they aren’t handled properly!”

Morrigan snapped her mouth shut, exhaling heavily through her nose. “Sorry, Borte.” Her gaze slid to Aerin and the others. “And present company.”

Killian frowned and nodded. “Apologies as well.”

Borte grumbled something beneath her breath and turned away, jamming her spoon back into the pot before she glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Present company… What are your names, anyway?”

Aerin blinked. Somehow, he felt as if they had already gone through introductions, although he did not know why. Since their arrival in Rysoth, it had been one event after another. There had been no time for pleasantries, yet he couldn’t shake the strange feeling that these people already knew them.

Tyril introduced himself first, to which Borte looked mildly interested. “A Starfury, hm?” Her yellow gaze fell to the sword sheathed at Iliana’s side. “I thought I recognized that blade.”

Tyril’s brows lifted. “You’ve seen the Blade of Sol?”

“Seen the Blade of Sol?” Borte echoed, grunting dispassionately. “Hmph. I watched your ancestor wield it against the Beast of Blood at Cragheart.”

Tyril’s lips parted. “Cragheart… that was centuries ago.”

Borte scowled.  _ “And?” _

“And… nothing,” Tyril replied wisely

“That’s what I thought,” the dwarf sniffed, turning away from Tyril. Her stare intensified as her attention narrowed in on Iliana. “But  _ you _ ,” she said, eyes wide and inescapable behind those thick lenses. “You are not a Starfury.”

“Nightbloom,” Iliana responded stiffly, expression apprehensive. “Iliana Nightbloom.”

“Nightbloom?” Borte parroted, raising a bushy brow. “That’s a name I have not heard in a long while. Time has forgotten you, it seems.”

Iliana’s lips pressed into a frown and she shook her head. “I don’t know anything about the Nightblooms. I was orphaned as a child and raised by humans in a town called Riverbend.”

“Right. With your human brother, Kade,” Borte assumed, grabbing a jar off of her workbench and tentatively sniffing the contents before pouring the whole thing into the brew.

Iliana nodded her affirmation. “Yes.”

“Why were you orphaned?”

“I―what?” Iliana drew back, affronted. Her gaze flitted to Aerin and instantly, the urge to step in swelled up in him.

“Why were you orphaned?” Borte repeated, unbothered by her response. “How?”

“There was a massacre in our village,” Iliana replied warily as she folded her hands together behind her back and her fingers fumbled anxiously with the gold ring on her thumb. “Kade and I were taken in by a Riverbend farmer.”

“Both of you? Together?” Borte pressed. There was a gleam in her yellow eyes that made Aerin’s stomach uneasy. “Did you know each other beforehand?”

“Yes, both of us,” Iliana replied, clearly perplexed. “And I don’t know. I was a child, I barely remember anything before Riverbend.”

“What kind of massacre?”

Iliana’s brows lowered, eyes flashing.  _ “Excuse me?”  _ She scrunched her nose, shaking her head as she snapped, “I don’t see how any of this matters.”

“Hm. I suppose it doesn’t,” Borte replied calmly, unfazed by Iliana’s outburst, although the curious glint in her eyes did not go away. She turned to Imtura. “And you?”

“Imtura Tal Kaelen.”

“Tal Kaelen?” Borte huffed, tapping her foot. When she smiled, Aerin could have sworn he saw that a few of her teeth were filed into razor-sharp points. He suppressed a shudder. “How’s your mother?” Borte asked. “Still cheating her way to the top?”

Aerin tensed as he watched the lines of Imtura’s body go rigid and she drew herself up to her full height. But then she merely grunted and folded her arms. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Borte smirked, lip curving in approval as she looked Imtura up and down with a look of appraisal. Without another word, she turned to Aerin, expectant. He felt Iliana’s gaze burning into his side, warning him to be cautious. Aerin debated giving a false name, just as he had tried to do with the Khagan. But somehow, he had a feeling that if he lied, she would know.

He cleared his throat, lifting his chin. If he was going to be himself, he had to be proud of it. “Aerin Valleros.”

“Aerin Valleros…” Borte repeated, dragging out the syllables as she looked him up and down. She lifted a brow. “The king’s boy?”

Aerin wordlessly nodded, folding his hands behind his back as his palms began to sweat.

Borte grunted and turned away, redirecting her attention to her brew as she muttered, “Haven’t dealt with one of you in decades.”

After a few moments of silence, Aerin allowed himself to relax. He glanced at Iliana and saw that some of her wariness had drained away as well. It seemed that Borte either did not know who he was, or she did and simply did not care. 

“Bowls,” Borte ordered and Morgan peeled herself away from the wall and retrieved five wooden bowls from a nearby cabinet, balancing them in her arms. But before she could start passing them out, Borte said, “Grab two more for you and your brother.”

Killian straightened, eyes widening as his wings brushed against an assortment of pots and other strange objects that hung from the ceiling, causing them to clatter together. How Borte managed to reach them, Aerin did not know.

“That’s alright, Borte,” he said quickly, reaching out to still the hanging objects and silence the racket. “I’ve already eaten and―”

“I know you haven’t. You and Morrigan have been on search and rescue all day, Killian,” Borte snapped as Morrigan handed bowls out to Aerin and his companions. “I won’t have you falling out of the sky because you didn’t eat.”

When Morrigan got to her brother, she shoved the bowl against his chest with a self-satisfied smirk that he rolled his eyes at. Killian sighed, wrinkling his nose in resignation. “Alright.”

Killian stepped up to Borte and her cauldron first, motioning for the others to follow as the dwarf woman ladled her strange brew into his bowl. The brown broth was the exact shade of the shimmering silt that clouded the small rapids that ran through the heartoak forest around Whitetower.

Aerin lifted the bowl to his face to cautiously sniff the broth and frowned. No smell. Across from him, Tyril swirled his bowl around in his palm, expression thoughtful. He scanned the table that held most of the ingredients Borte had used and pursed his lips. “This brew of yours is, ah… one of  _ those _ isn’t it?”

“Borte’s specialty,” Morrigan commented, holding the bowl to her lips and drinking deeply. Killian muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath before doing the same. Upon seeing the siblings drink and survive, Aerin cautiously tilted the bowl to his mouth and tried the strange broth.

Aerin was pleased to note that the soup did not kill him, but the  _ taste _ ―It reminded him of bourbon, dirt, and sage, all at once. Aerin let out a very undignified snort as the back of his nose burned with the foul-tasting broth, although he barely managed to choke it down with a grimace. Beside him, Iliana pulled back and coughed into her arm, her eyes watering. 

“That’s… interesting,” she said weakly, peering into her bowl, her distaste poorly disguised.

Imtura blew out a heavy breath. “That’ll put some hair on your back.”

“It’s not supposed to be tasty, it’s supposed to keep you on your feet,” Borte muttered, rolling her eyes as she drained her bowl without even flinching. “And after the day you’ve all had, you need it.”

Aerin hated to admit it, but the bitter broth seemed to be working. Already he felt his strength return to his bones, stealing some of his ever-present exhaustion away. Aerin grit his teeth and forced himself to drink until nothing remained in his bowl but dregs.

Borte huffed. “Glad to see you’re not a fussy little prince in need of coddling.”

Aerin gave her a tight-lipped smile. “I was once. But not anymore.”

“Not anymore,” Borte echoed, her expression unreadable as she studied him. “That’s what matters, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.” Aerin shrugged. He had no idea what to think of this dwarf woman, much less what she thought of him. But she didn’t seem to despise him, despite her thorny disposition, so he figured that was good enough. 

There was a sudden knock on the door that drew everyone’s attention. “Borte,” an unfamiliar voice called from outside. “We need Dane. We’re doing another sweep of the upper forest to make sure the wooly men have retreated through the fields.”

In unison, Morrigan and Killian both straightened, standing at attention. They scowled at each other until Killian sighed, breaking their stare. He pushed his fingers through his coppery hair as he replied, “ _ Which _ Dane?”

There was a beat of silence, then―“Killian.”

Morrigan shook her head and folded her arms, glaring into the hearth as she muttered something beneath her breath.

For a moment, it looked as if Killian might croon over his favor, but he pressed his lips together and asked through the door, “What about Morrigan? She can go.”

“Wing Leader specifically requested you,” the voice replied.

Killian frowned sympathetically, glancing at his sister. His tone was apologetic. “Next time, little bird.”

“Och.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Killian started for the door, then hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said, rolling her eyes as she made a shooing motion with her long fingers. “Stop fussing and get out of here, you overgrown crow. My ego isn’t  _ that _ fragile.”

Killian smirked. “Damn right.” He turned to the rest of the group and dipped his chin in farewell. “I’m sure I will see you all again soon.”

When he was gone, Morrigan slumped against the wall, clearly put out. Aerin shared a look with Iliana. She raised her brows and Aerin simply responded with a shrug. Whatever this was it wasn’t their business to pry into.

But evidently, Imtura had no qualms. “Sibling rivalry?”

Aerin inwardly cringed at her bluntness, but Morrigan’s lips twisted into a wry smile. She shrugged, her green eyes roaming over Imtura as if noticing her for the first time. “Something like that,” she admitted. “But there’s no bad blood between me and my brother. Our father is the Wingleader of our Clan, and with Killian and I being twins, he has yet to declare his successor.”

Aerin’s brows furrowed. “Well, who is older?”

In Morella, the crown had always gone to the eldest child, unless the heir abdicated. But that had never happened even once in the entire Valleros history.

“Killian. By a handful of minutes. Some might argue that that’s long enough to solidify his claim but…” Morrigan shrugged. “I’m still in the running.”

“Don’t know why you even bother with the charade, Morrigan,” Borte muttered, shaking her head. “You don’t even want to be Wing Leader.”

Aerin tilted his head. “You don’t?”

Morrigan shook her head, wrinkling her freckled nose. “No. I’d rather learn about magic from Borte. The affinity is rare among our people. But I’m just as capable of a fighter as Killian. He knows that. Is it so bad to want others to see that too?”

“No. It’s not.” It was Iliana who replied. When Aerin looked over, he found that she was gazing at him. Normally, her kindness would have made him feel warm all over, but now, Aerin wondered if perhaps she was too forgiving, too accepting of what he had done. Couldn’t she see that he was a walking disaster? That those who were close to him almost always wound up getting hurt? First Baldur and now Ristridin and his men.

_ And Iliana,  _ his subconscious whispered.  _ Or have you already forgotten? _

The memories came forth as if on their own accord. He saw Iliana convulsing on the ground, her face a mask of agony, skin a sickly violet, as she choked on the poisonous air. He saw her stumbling through the gate of Nia’s front yard, leaving behind crimson handprints on the stark white fence, on the night that she had broken him out of the palace dungeons. He saw her standing before him in the Shadow Realm, bruised and bloody, dressed in the Armor of the Dawnbringer―a relic of  _ his _ ancestor’s champion, the Dawn Knight―prepared to strike him down. He saw her pinned to the ground beneath his Shadow in his father’s throne room, glaring at him with a fire that rivaled that of the Seven Hells as he disappeared through the portal into the Shadow Realm.

And finally, he saw her in the glade at the center of the Deadwood, the air shimmering between them as she pulled away from their kiss and smiled brightly, genuinely.  _ I’m glad we understand each other. _

Aerin swallowed hard and looked away. He waved his hand toward Borte. “You said we had things to discuss? That you may have… answers?”

He felt rather than saw Iliana’s eyes narrow, studying him closely.

“Yes,” Borte replied, crossing the cluttered workshop to perch atop a small stool. “But first, I have some questions of my own. Starting with how you found the Call.”

All eyes turned to Iliana, drawing Borte and Morrigan’s interest. She frowned, her gaze dropping to her hands. She twisted the ring, then curled her fingers into fists to keep them still. “The riddle? I found it in my brother’s room written on a piece of parchment. He said that he felt…” Her face slackened and she pulled the folded note in question from the pocket of her trousers. She scanned the note, her skin growing pale. “He said that the gods were calling to him, that he felt their pull.”

“Perhaps that was literal,” Morrigan breathed, her eyes wide. “Maybe that boy  _ did _ find the Old Gods.”

“Or something else,” she muttered lowly, her expression unreadable as she stared thoughtfully into the fire. She shifted her gaze back to Iliana, then sat forward, resting her elbows atop her knees. “Yes. He said something very similar when he arrived.” The dwarf woman cocked her head to the side. “But how did  _ you  _ come across the letter? Do you live together?”

“No.” Iliana shook her head. “No, Kade lived in the Whitetower palace. I live near the Market District, or at least I did. I wasn’t even in Whitetower when he left. I was in Riverbend when I had this… this feeling. I…”

“Was it the Call?” Morrigan asked, but Iliana shook her head. And so did Borte, Aerin noted, his brows furrowing. It was as if the dwarf woman already knew all of the answers.

“I just felt… fear,” Iliana said softly, staring hard at the floor as she tried to sort out her thoughts and memories. “But it wasn’t mine, or at least not at first. It was Kade’s… I don’t know how I knew it was his, but I just did. So I left immediately.”

Aerin’s confusion only grew. Iliana had never mentioned this to him. He glanced around at his companions and found that neither of them looked surprised to hear this. In fact, as Aerin mulled this new information over, he realized that he had never even thought to ask why Iliana had come back to Whitetower, or how she even knew that Kade was in some sort of danger. Now that he knew… Aerin felt a sense of dread pool in his stomach as he also recalled Iliana’s strange dreams. He did not know what any of this meant, but he had a gut feeling that they had not just stumbled across this search for the Old Gods in their quest to find Kade. No, it was what they were meant to do all along.

“So that is why you are here. To find your brother,” Borte stated, but Iliana shook her head.

“No. I mean, yes. At first, that was why.” She glanced first at Aerin, then at Tyril and Imtura. “But we  _ do _ need to find the Old Gods.”

“Because?”

“Because the Empire of Ash is coming,” Tyril answered darkly, his voice flat and grave.

Morrigan’s eyes widened and she shook her head in disbelief. “That’s absurd!”

“You can wait and find out for yourself,” Aerin said quickly, already irritated with this conversation. Distantly, he wondered if it was the Shadow that had shortened his temper. “Or you can save yourself and us the trouble of wasting time convincing you and just skip to the part where you believe us.”

Morrigan’s lip curled as she glared at him, then turned to the dwarf woman. “Do  _ you _ believe this, Borte?”

“I learned a long time ago that anything is possible. Why not this?” she muttered, taking off her thick glasses and wiping them on her shirt. When she put them back on, she exhaled heavily. “If the Empire of Ash is coming, this could be the very reason why the Call was created. They are the only threat big enough to lure those beasts out of hiding.”

Iliana’s brows rose. “So you think we might be able to find the Old Gods? Successfully convince them to join us?”

“I  _ think _ that if this business about the Empire of Ash is true, then you better pray that you are successful,” Borte said sharply, her wrinkled face appearing nightmarish in the flickering firelight. “Or we’re all doomed.” Her yellow eyes roamed over Iliana’s face, scrutinizing. “There’s something else on your mind. What is it?”

“I…” Iliana glanced toward Aerin, her brows pulling together. “The Khagan, she said that there were disappearances in her kingdom. People vanishing through portals.” Her gaze fell to the floor as she rubbed her face with the back of her hands, as if all of this was giving her a headache. “We have reason to believe that it’s related to the Empire of Ash.”

Morrigan shifted, clearly unnerved, and her chestnut wings rustled. “That’s awful. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Aerin’s eyes narrowed, noting the way Borte’s lips thinned in dismay. “But you have, haven’t you? You know something.”

Borte’s attention darted to him, eyes flashing in warning as if to convey that she did not take kindly to being studied so closely. But instead of snapping at him, she said, “This does not bode well.”

Before Aerin could ask what that meant, Borte slid off the edge of her stool and hobbled to the center of the room. “There are three ways to open portals to other realms. You can use ordinary magic―”

She held up her hands in front of her and closed her eyes, brow’s knitting with strain and concentration. In the corner, Morrigan stood ramrod straight, her eyes widening. “Wait a moment, Borte, you know―”

There was a loud  _ crack!  _ and a swirling portal appeared in the air before her. It was not like the one Aerin had created back in his father’s throne room, but rather the ones he had used for quick travel between the realms whenever he met with the Shadow Court. It was small, frayed at the edges, and just as the rifts Aerin had traveled through did, it closed only moments after opening. 

Aerin gaped in awe. To create a portal, even one as unstable as that, required an immense amount of power and energy. He had never been able to do such a thing before. Only Duchess Xenia and the Dreadlord himself had that affinity.

The moment the portal disappeared, Borte staggered, then fell to her hands and knees, breathing haggardly. Morrigan was by her side almost immediately. “Borte! You crazy old bat, what were you thinking? You know how much energy that takes!”

“Quit your jabbering, child,” Borte snapped, waving her apprentice off as she tried to help the dwarf to her feet. “I knew how much energy that takes and I did it anyway. I can make my own decisions. Just fill a bowl for me, will you?”

Morrigan opened her mouth as if to protest, then snapped it shut, shaking her head in disapproval although she did as asked. Meanwhile, Borte sat back on the floor and pushed her wiry grey hair out of her face before waving her gnarled hand at the space the rift had been. “Clearly, that method is not very efficient. The portals barely stay open long enough for one person to enter through and they require immense amounts of energy. I―thank you, Morrigan,” Borte said, taking the offered bowl of broth from her apprentice.

Out of the corner of his eye, Aerin saw Tyril purse his lips and wrinkle his nose in distaste as Borte held the bowl to her mouth and tilted her head back, the contents sloshing over the rim and all over the front of her tunic. When she finally drained the bowl of its contents, she belched, tossed the bowl aside, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. On Iliana’s other side, Imtura huffed her amusement and approval.

“The other method is by using a conduit of pure magic,” Borte continued, leaning back on her hands. “That’s the most reliable way to create stable portals that can be opened and closed as necessary. But those are incredibly rare to come by.”

Beside him, Iliana shifted uncomfortably, sharing a look with Tyril. Aerin knew what they were thinking.  _ Realm-Walker. Conduit.  _ Aerin had been unconscious when she created the portal from the Realm of Shadow to the Realm of Light, but Kade had filled him in on the details. Iliana could do the very thing the Empire of Ash aspired to do.

“And the third way?” Aerin asked cautiously. Judging by Borte’s dark expression, he was not entirely sure that he wanted to know.

“Blood magic.”

A shudder ran through Aerin at that. He’d read quite a few books about magic during his days in the palace, but he had never been able to stomach any of the passages on blood magic for more than a few paragraphs. He felt something warm press against his palm and looked down to see Iliana slide her fingers through his.

_ Too kind. Too nice,  _ his subconscious warned him, but Aerin shoved those thoughts away, recognizing them for what they were: the Shadow’s attempts to sow doubt in his mind, to isolate him from those that sought to keep him… well,  _ him. _ Aerin squeezed her palm. He would not let the Shadow drive a wedge between him and all of the things he held dear, not again.

“You’re going to have to explain that one, dwarf,” Imtura grumbled, shaking her head in confusion. 

Borte huffed as if to say,  _ Obviously.  _ “Think of it like this. In whatever realm you are born in, you are  _ of that realm _ . You are made of it and its components. And realms have a sort of… signature, if you will. Something that distinguishes it from another and makes it distinctive.”

_ Like Shadow magic, _ Aerin thought, thinking of the way Threep had been able to scent it in him, long before Aerin even realized he still had any left within him.

_ He smells of ash _ ― _ remnants of the Court, _ the nesper had said back in Nia’s cottage.  _ But he’s not corrupted. I just do not like him. _

“We carry that signature,” Borte continued, waving at herself, then the others. “The signature of the Light Realm. It’s in our hair, our skin, our magic, and our blood. However, we are so accustomed to it, we cannot identify it ourselves.”

“But the Empire of Ash could,” Iliana breathed, speaking his exact thoughts. She paled and Aerin squeezed her hand reassuringly, although he did not know exactly how much comfort he could offer when he was just as unnerved. “And you think that’s the reason for these disappearances? So the Empire of Ash can… use their signatures?”

“Exactly,” Borte nodded, eyeing Iliana with some begrudging respect. “That signature can be exploited with blood magic to create a tether to our realm and open a portal. A stable one. One that will stay open longer.”

“Hells,” Imtura growled, her face twisted with disgust and anger. “So all of those people, they’re being taken so they can be… what, sacrificed?”

“Something like that,” Borte replied grimly.

“How long?” Tyril asked, his face so pale it was almost white, as if all of the blood had drained from his body. “How long will this portal stay open? And how big would it be?”

Borte shrugged although the movement was anything but nonchalant. “I do not know. It depends on how much blood is used.”

Aerin and Iliana shared an uneasy look. He knew she was wondering the same thing: How many people had they taken?

“How do you know about all of this?” Aerin asked, turning back to Borte. “About blood magic?”

“We practice all kinds of magic in Zaradun, child,” she replied cryptically, waving her hand through the air. “Blood is among the least arcane.”

Another shiver rolled down Aerin’s spine. He wondered if Borte was purposefully trying to unnerve them. He did not know the dwarf woman very well, but judging by what he had seen so far, he would not put such a thing past her.

“Now,” Borte said, clearing her throat as she clapped her hands together. She waved to Morrigan, who withdrew a wooden tube from a nearby shelf. Aerin had no idea how she was able to keep track of where anything was located in this mess. “The reason you came here is for answers. You want to know the next step in finding the Old Gods, yes?”

In unison, Aerin, Iliana, Tyril, and Imtura nodded.

“Good,” Borte replied, taking the cylinder from Morrigan and letting its contents―a rolled-up piece of parchment―slide into her small hand. She spread the parchment out on the floor and Aerin immediately knew what it was. A map. 

Of a labyrinth.

“Let me tell you about the Cave.”

* * *

Iliana thought that discovering the next steps of their journey would make her feel better, but as fate would have it, she felt more dread about the future than before.

_ Great,  _ Iliana thought as she stared at the labyrinthine map. The map was covered in markings and annotations, indicating traps and dead ends.  _ We are going to die. _

“There are several routes you can take to get to the heart of the Cave,” Borte was saying, waving her hand at the map before pointing to several passageways. “But these are the ones we know best, and many of the traps have already been triggered…”

As the dwarf woman spoke, Iliana’s gaze roamed over the twisting tunnels of the map, noting some of the more daunting traps.  _ Chasm, collapsing ceiling, poisonous gas, pressure plates,  _ and even something simply titled,  _ “???” _

“Who created all of this?” Imtura asked, voicing Iliana’s exact thoughts. “This is…” She shook her head, at a loss for words. “It’s a lot of work.”

It was Morrigan who replied. “We don’t know for certain. It could have been my Avian ancestors, trying to protect the Old Gods’ sanctuary. Or even the gods themselves. But…” She glanced toward Borte, who merely shrugged. “Some people think it was the old Riders.”

“The old Riders?” Iliana asked, her brows drawing together. “But why? Why would they want to do that?”

Morrigan’s shoulders rose and fell, offering no answer. “I don’t know. Even with all of our answers, there’s so much we don’t understand.”

Iliana huffed. If  _ that  _ was not the story of her life… It seemed as if every time she found the answer to one question, several more sprung up in its place.

“Well, if we’re going to do this,” Aerin stated, weariness evident in his tone. “We have to be at our best. Which means a full night of rest at the very least.”

“We have to wait for Mal to recover, too,” Tyril added, staring at the map thoughtfully. “We’ll see how he is tomorrow morning, but we should probably take the entire day to recuperate. The last few have been extremely strenuous.”

Iliana frowned. She did not like delaying their journey―every day they spent here was not only another that Kade spent alone, potentially in danger, but also another day in which the Empire of Ash prepared for their invasion. For how long had they been kidnapping people? And how much longer would it be before they had all of the blood they needed? But Tyril and Aerin were right. If they weren’t well-rested, they would only be a danger to themselves.

“Alright,” Iliana agreed, rising from her crouch beside Borte’s map. “We’ll take tonight, tomorrow, and tomorrow night to rest and prepare. Then we get through the Cave and find the Old Gods.”

Aerin smiled wryly. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It will be,” Imtura replied, standing as well. “For us.” She turned to Morrigan, flexing her hands and popping her stiff joints. “Where are we staying, bird lady? Back in the sickbay?”

Morrigan lifted her brows, apparently unamused by ‘bird lady.’ But she merely sighed and waved her hand, gesturing for everyone to follow her. “If you’re done here, I can show you to your rooms. You’re in luck. We just built new lodgings for the garrison and no one has moved in yet.”

Iliana glanced at her companions, who nodded in confirmation. “I believe we’re all finished for tonight,” Tyril declared, nodding his chin toward the map. “May I take this? I would like to study it before we go.”

“All yours, elf,” Borte grumbled, rolling up the parchment and gingerly sliding it back into its casing. But before Tyril could take them, Borte pulled her hand back, withholding the map. “If you mess it up even in the slightest, I will skin you alive and use your bones as toothpicks.”

A muscle in Tyril’s jaw feathered, the only sign of his discontent. He nodded. “I will make sure no harm comes to it.”

“You better,” Borte muttered, allowing Tyril to take the cylinder. As everyone began to follow Morrigan out of the workshop, Borte clucked her tongue and said, “Not you. We still have more to discuss.”

Iliana stilled by the doorway and turned back, a question already on her lips. But the words died almost immediately as she realized that Borte was not talking to her, but Aerin. Outside, Imtura and Tyril continued, already out of earshot to hear Borte’s request.

Aerin frowned. “What about?”

Borte’s big yellow eyes slid to Iliana, then back to Aerin. “I think this is a conversation best had in private.”

Aerin’s brows lifted, then lowered in understanding. He glanced at Iliana, his jaw tense and expression dark, and for a moment, she thought he might turn her away. But then Aerin shook his head, folding his hands behind his back. “She can stay. Whatever it is, Iliana can hear it too.”

Borte looked between them, then huffed, rolling her eyes. She turned away and grabbed a glass jug of water. She took a hearty swig, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Before Iliana could even blink, Borte whirled and slammed the jug on the ground, and hissed,  _ “As fjorsan!” _

She raised her arms, and with them rose the water, which froze into jagged shards of ice that gleamed like fallen stars in the firelight. They surrounded Aerin and hung in the air, suspended by some unseen force, razor-sharp points intent on piercing his flesh.

Iliana shouted in warning and instantly, Aerin’s Shadow burst forth, curling around her like a protective cocoon before lashing through the air. Dark lances speared through the shards, disintegrating them into thousands of sparkling crystals of ice that exploded outward. Borte threw up her hands, her thick-rimmed glasses clattering to the floor, and a blue light flared around her, dispelling any crystals that came her way and transforming them back into harmless droplets of water.

Borte wiped a sheen of water from her forehead and flicked the droplets off the edges of her fingers as she let out a startled laugh. “Ha! There you are.”

“What the hells was that?” Aerin snapped, the black veins at his neck standing out in sharp relief against the sickly grey pallor of his skin. Dark flames still wicked off him like smoke. “You wanted to get me alone so you could attack me?”

“No, nothing like that, child,” Borte tutted, her tone almost kind as she grinned and plucked her glasses off the ground. She rubbed them off on the front of her tunic, then put them back on. One of the warbled lenses had cracked, reflecting a dozen bright yellow eyes at them. “I just needed confirmation.”

Aerin’s gaze sharpened and the darkness flared higher.  _ “Confirmation?” _

Before he could say anything else, Iliana stepped between them, putting Aerin at her back and facing down the dwarf woman. “How did you know?”

“I just told you all about signatures, did I not?” Borte questioned as she peered around Iliana to study Aerin. “You have the Shadow Realm’s all over you, child.”

Aerin paled. “I… It’s not―”

“There’s a simple explanation,” Iliana began, although she did not know what that explanation was quite yet.

“Tch,” Borte clicked her tongue and shook her head. “You wield the Shadow. I don’t care about why. I know full well that not all dark magic is wholly bad, just like not all good magic is, well, wholly good. Blood magic is the same,” she said, holding up her hand to reveal a scarlet slice at the center of her palm. Somehow, Iliana knew that that was how she had been able to control the water. “But I do want to know if you know the weight of your actions. Do you know what is to become of you?”

Aerin’s voice was flat. “You’re talking about the corruption.”

“I am,” Borte confirmed, her gaze flicking between the two of them. “Do you have a plan for how to deal with it?”

“Of course we do,” Iliana replied before Aerin could say any more nonsense about letting someone end it before his corruption got too far. “We’re going to―”

“Find the Old Gods and beg them to purify him?” Borte asked, and it was only when she said it that Iliana realized how foolish and impossible it sounded. The dwarf shook her head. “I wouldn’t count on that. You can’t find all of your solutions in one place. And the Old Gods are not known for their generosity in doling out favors.”

“Then I will find something else,” Iliana snapped, glaring down at the dwarf woman. “We will go to the priests of Light―the ones that Nia still trusts―and see what they can do. Perhaps they can do a purification ritual―”

“Iliana,” Aerin interjected from behind her. “That would take an immense amount of power. You know this. You saw what they needed to do for the Shard.”

“Not to mention how long that would take,” Borte added, waving her gnarled hand toward Aerin. “Look at him, child. It is not going away, anymore. Your plan could take weeks. You have  _ days. _ ”

Iliana turned and felt her heart stop in her chest. Aerin had since reeled the Shadow in and his skin, while still pale, was no longer grey. But his veins―they still pulsed jet black. The Shadow was taking over. 

Noting her crestfallen expression, Aerin looked down at himself, raising his hands. When he saw the darkness that threaded beneath his skin like lace, his face fell. Aerin met her gaze and in his eyes, she saw an apology. “Iliana…”

“No.” She knew exactly what he was thinking and would not allow it,  _ could  _ not allow it.

“It’s already starting,” he said softly. “You have to―”

_ “No,” _ Iliana repeated, more forcefully this time. “We are not doing that. No one is―” Her voice broke as her throat tightened. “No one is going to die.” She turned back to Borte. “There has to be something we can do. Anything.”

Borte pursed her lips, face drawn in thought. “There is… something that could work,” she said slowly after a few moments. “Understand that this is outside of my knowledge and that this is only a theory. But Rysoth is filled with rifts of Light, the closest being a natural spring that is located about a few hours’ hike from here. The water there is said to be rich with magic and have incredible healing properties.” She eyed Aerin carefully. “Perhaps it could even root out your corruption.”

“That’s… that’s great!” Iliana breathed, her heart skipping in disbelief. She glanced at Aerin, who looked hopeful, but cautiously so. “Where is this place? We can leave now―”

“Hold on, child,” Borte chided, curbing her enthusiasm as she turned to Aerin. “There are risks you must know about. Purification is dangerous. The Shadow will fight back and it will try to punish you for betraying it. The process will be as strenuous on the body as it will be on the mind and there is no guarantee you will survive. And, it is worth mentioning that if you live through the purification, you will be just a man. Powerless. If war is coming, your magic would be useful.”

Aerin frowned and shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t matter. I would not be me. I would still be just as much of a danger to my friends than to our enemies.”

“Not necessarily,” Borte replied, shaking her head, face pensive. “There are dwarves back in Zaradun who specialize in, ah, magical contracts. The mage I studied under was one such dwarf. I remember enough of his work to supervise an agreement.”

Aerin narrowed his eyes, wariness lining his features as if he recognized something she said and did not like it. “Magical contracts? What are you talking about?”

“Magical contracts are not unlike normal contracts,” Borte explained, swiping her tongue over one of her few sharpened teeth. “You make some sort of agreement, some sort of deal, and you are bound by magic to fulfill it.”

“And how would that help us?” Iliana questioned, her brows knitting together. She had no idea where this was going, but something about what Borte said tugged at her mind.  _ Some sort of deal…  _

“Aerin here could pledge himself into your service and to your cause for whatever amount of time you agree upon,” Borte said, leaning against her workbench. “With a bit of magic and the right phrasing, you can command him to do whatever you so please and he could not refuse, even while corrupted.”

“No,” Iliana spat, her stomach twisting in revulsion. She could not believe what she was hearing, could not even imagine the scenario Borte was painting for her. She glanced over at Aerin and saw that he looked as pale as the moon. She wondered if he was going to be sick. “No. That is out of the question.”

“Are you certain?” Borte asked and Iliana wanted to scream. “He cannot turn against you or anyone you place under your protection.  _ His Shadow  _ would be yours, and in a battle with the Empire of Ash, that could be invaluable―”

“He is a  _ person, _ not a weapon,” Iliana snarled, her fingers curling into fists as she towered over the dwarf woman, who did not even flinch. “I won’t allow it―”

“You are letting your emotions cloud your judgment, girl,” Borte interjected sternly. “He is important to you, yes. But is he more important than the lives he could save? Why don’t you let him decide? It is his life, after all.” Borte turned to Aerin, a bushy brow raised. “What do you think, child?”

Iliana scowled and she folded her arms almost smugly, expecting Aerin to answer as confidently as she had and put this debate to rest. But when he did not reply after a few moments, Iliana’s chest tightened and she turned to him, doubt creeping into her voice as her hands fell to her sides. “Aerin?”

He did not look so certain.

“I…” Aerin’s brows drew together as he glanced between Iliana and Borte. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. “No. I won’t do that.”

Borte pursed her lips and nodded as if she had expected this, but was no less disappointed. “Alright, child. It’s your choice.”

“Yes,” Iliana sneered. “As you asked, Borte. Now, can you tell us where this rift is so we can be on our way?”

Aerin raised his brows at her. “You want to go now?”

“Why not?” she shrugged. “Borte said you only have days. We shouldn’t waste any time.”

“I’m sure we can spare one night,” Aerin replied, glancing out the windows of Borte’s workshop to see the pearlescent face of the moon shining outside. It had already passed through the apex of its trajectory through the night sky. “Besides, it’s dark out. You might have night vision, but I don’t.”

Iliana frowned. “I don’t have night vision, Aerin.” What did he think she was? Some sort of predator?

He winced apologetically and shrugged. “Your senses are still better than mine.”

“He’s right,” Borte added and Iliana felt a flicker of irritation at the woman’s voice. After what Borte had just suggested about magical contracts and Aerin’s magic, it took every bit of self-restraint she had not to throttle the dwarf. “The rainforest is dangerous. There are all sorts of beasts that prowl in the night.” 

Iliana was about to open her mouth and argue that she could handle any creature when Borte continued, shooting her a knowing look.

“And if  _ that _ is not enough to convince you, then maybe this will,” she said, waving her hand toward Aerin. “The purification process will demand everything of him, will take every bit of strength he has. He needs to rest and eat if he hopes to even stand a chance. Does that convince you?”

Iliana deflated. She glanced at Aerin and sighed.  _ Of course.  _ Eager as she was to put all of this nightmarish corruption business behind her, she had to proceed with caution, especially if Aerin’s wellbeing was on the line. She could not risk him, could not stand to endanger him because she was impatient and anxious. “Fine. We’ll wait until tomorrow.”

“Good,” Borte said as she began to draft up directions to the springs on a piece of parchment. “You will have to go on foot. I only know the way based on markers on the forest floor, not aerially. And I will have Killian gather a tent and supplies for you. Once you ingest the water, assuming it works, you will be unable to return until the purification process is complete.”

“How long will that take?” Aerin asked.

“Hours. Probably an entire night.”

“An entire night?” Aerin echoed, expressing the shock Iliana felt. He looked at her. “Can we afford that? We had plans to leave the day after tomorrow for the Cave.”

“We’ll have to make do,” Iliana stated firmly, even though the prospect of pushing back their quest even further was not exactly ideal. “This has to be done first. I’m sure the others won’t mind an extra day of rest.”

Aerin frowned but did not argue, turning away from her as Borte jammed the rolled-up directions into his empty hand. 

“Just keep an eye out for those markers and you should find it,” she told him. “You’ll know when you’re close. The magic will be all around you.”

Aerin nodded, glancing toward Iliana as if to say,  _ That’s going to be on you.  _ “Thank you, Borte.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grunted, her gruff demeanor back in place once more. “When you go outside, turn right, and look for the cluster of buildings with wings painted on the sides. Those are the new barracks. Now get out of my workshop.”

_ Gladly, _ Iliana thought, turning on her heel and striding for the door, calling a brief thank you over her shoulder. As she wrenched open the door, she glanced back just in time to see Aerin straighten from his position crouched at Borte’s side and nod. Iliana’s eyes narrowed.  _ What the hells did that dwarf say this time? _

“Aerin?” she prompted, holding the door open for him.

“Coming,” he replied, following her outside, although Iliana did not miss the way he glanced over his shoulder just as the door swung shut behind them.

“What did Borte say to you?” Iliana asked as they turned right and continued down a catwalk that was bordered on both sides by a length of thick rope.

Aerin stiffened slightly and Iliana knew immediately that he had hoped she did not notice. “Nothing important. Just more cryptic warnings about the purification process and a half-hearted attempt to wish me luck.”

Iliana snorted, slightly relieved. “Sounds like her.”

They walked in pensive silence, making their way toward the buildings Borte had described. Aerin gazed at their surroundings as they passed, taking in the dozens of structures built into the great tree, then the canopy spread below them, with no small amount of wonder. But as he stared at their surroundings, Iliana could only stare at him. 

She studied the dark tint of his veins, her chest tightening with worry. But she also observed the light in his eyes, the ease with which he walked beside her, their shoulders barely brushing. For now, at least, he almost seemed relaxed. Content. Even with everything that was coming their way.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” he admitted, a line forming between his brows. “Honestly, when you got me out of the dungeons to help you find Kade, I didn’t think we’d even make it out of Whitetower.”

Iliana let out an amused huff. “What little faith you have.”

“I think I proved earlier that I have quite a bit of faith,” Aerin replied, smiling slightly as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

Iliana wrinkled her nose. “Please don’t remind me. That was by far one of the worst things I have ever done.”

Aerin laughed lightly, the gentle sound carrying on the soft night-kissed breeze that swept through the Aerie. Eventually, they reached the barracks and found another armored birdman who simply directed them into the building and told them to pick any room that wasn’t already taken by their companions.

Aerin stopped in front of the open door of the third room. “I’ll take this one.”

Iliana nodded, glancing toward the fourth before meeting his gaze again. “Make sure you rest up. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

She had just turned to continue to her room when Aerin reached out, his fingers curling around her wrist. “Wait.” 

Iliana’s heart seized in her chest and she stilled, her skin burning where he touched her. But not in a bad way. No, certainly not in a bad way.

Iliana raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“I…” Aerin hesitated, a blush blooming on his colorless cheeks. “I never thanked you. For getting me out of those dungeons. For taking me out of Whitetower.”

Iliana’s brows drew together. That was not what she was expecting him to say. She shook her head earnestly. “You don’t have to thank me for that, Aerin.”

“But I do,” he insisted, his fingers sliding from her wrist to her hand. “I just… I need you to know that I’m thankful for what you have given me. Freedom, a chance to see the world, a chance to find―” He huffed a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. Iliana felt her heart swell at his words, her lips curve into a smile at the sound of his laugh. “To find friends. I just want you to know what this all means to me, in case tomorrow―”

“Don’t,” Iliana whispered, squeezing her hand. “If this is your version of some sort of preemptive goodbye, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Iliana―”

Before he could say any more, she leaned in and kissed him sweetly, briefly on the lips. When she pulled away, she murmured, “I said  _ don’t. _ ”

Despite himself, Aerin smiled. “Eventually, you’re going to have to let me talk,” he said softly, echoing her own words from the ruined forest.

Iliana matched his grin. “Eventually. But not tonight.” She jutted her chin toward his empty room. “Rest. No goodbyes. Just goodnight.”

Aerin glanced back at his room, then squeezed her hand, swiping his thumb across her knuckles, pressing against the cool surface of his signet ring on her finger. “You could stay with me.”

For a moment, Iliana sincerely considered it. It was… tempting to say the least. But the last time they had been completely alone together, they had stayed up all night. Tonight, they both needed to rest. Iliana shook her head, then leaned in to kiss his cheek as she slipped her hand from his. “I will see you in the morning, Aerin.”

Despite her response, Aerin smiled as if dazed, the blush on his cheeks darkening. He nodded. “Goodnight, Iliana.”

As Iliana retreated to her room and heard Aerin’s door shut behind her, she could not help but think that tomorrow, they would finally deal with his corruption once and for all. 

Aerin would either be purified, or the Shadows would tear him apart.


	24. Playing With Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm going to do everything I can to save him. And I believe he can be saved. I know he can."

Rainforests were not mentioned to be in any of the seven hells, but Aerin certainly thought they should be.

He found that he much preferred to roam around the Aerie―forever one misstep away from a lethal plunge, high above the central canopy―to traveling through the hot and humid environment of the forest floor. Even stripped down to the pair of plain cotton pants and the flimsy tunic Killian had included when he dropped off the supplies for their journey early that morning, Aerin felt as if he might as well have been trapped in layers of wool, unable to escape this oppressive heat. The pack that carried their tent, bedroll, and food rations weighed heavily on his back, but he refused to let Iliana carry any of the load. She was already burdened with her usual arsenal plus her old sword in case he had need of it.

The earth was dark and spongy underfoot, mostly obscured by vines and the spiraling roots of colorful, blossoming plants. Up ahead, Iliana picked her way around the dense foliage that grew all around them, using Borte’s directions to navigate their way toward the rift of Light―Aerin’s only hope for ridding himself of his growing corruption. As he trailed after Iliana, watching the muscles of her back and shoulders tense and flex beneath the thin, sweat-soaked material of her tunic, Aerin recalled a similar image, one he had witnessed only the night before.

_ “When you go outside, turn right, and look for the cluster of buildings with wings painted on the sides. Those are the new barracks. Now get out of my workshop.” _

_ Iliana did not even hesitate before turning on her heel and making for the door, carefully picking her way around the tables and strange contraptions that littered Borte’s workspace. Aerin was about to follow when he felt a sharp tug on his leg, willing him to stay behind for a moment. He turned to see Borte staring up at him, her glasses pushed back to rest atop her head, amber eyes grave. _

_ “Before you go, child, there is one more thing I must tell you,” Borte said, her voice low and near-silent as her small hands fisted in the hem of his pant leg. “You and I both know that if the purification ritual does not work, there will be no time to find another solution. The prince that returns will not be the same that leaves tomorrow morning.” _

“Aerin? Did you hear me?”

Aerin shook himself out of his thoughts and looked up. Iliana was gazing at him expectantly, her brows raised, eyes full of concern and suspicion. Distracted, Aerin hadn’t even realized that she had come to a stop. If she didn’t say anything, he likely would have walked right by her―if that had been possible. Behind Iliana stood a copse of towering, reed-like leafy stalks. They grew so close together, it was nearly impossible to see more than a few feet into dense foliage.

Aerin shook his head slowly. “Apologies. I was lost in thought.”

Iliana frowned, her emerald eyes scanning him from head to toe. “Anything important?”

Aerin shrugged and shook his head. “Not really.”

A lie.

Iliana pursed her lips, staring at him for a few moments more before she turned back to the stalks and held a few to the side with her palm. The plants were small in diameter, but sturdy, made of some sort of rubbery wood. The moment Iliana pulled her hand away, they whipped forward, snapping back into place. “I was saying that Borte’s directions say the way to the rift is through this patch, but it’s so dense and there’s no way to tell how long it goes on for, I’m worried we could get lost inside. I wanted to know if you think we should continue straight or try to find a way around?”

Aerin did not particularly like the idea of getting trapped and lost amongst all of those plants―given how tightly they were clustered together, he already knew it would feel smothering to pass through. But going around could set them off course and take up valuable time. Plus there was no way to be certain that they would find Borte’s next marker if they strayed from her directions.

“Let’s just go straight through,” Aerin decided, eyeing the thick vegetation. “If that’s what Borte says to do, then that’s what we’ll do.”

Iliana pursed her lips but nodded. “Alright. Just… stay close and pay attention. Don’t get lost.”

She slipped into the dense patch of greenery, pushing aside the stalks as she went. The moment she let them go, they snapped back into place, closing the path behind her like a curtain. Aerin frowned and followed, making sure not to fall more than a few paces behind Iliana and risk losing track of her amongst all of the plants and dangling vines. As they walked, Aerin could hear the low buzz of insects, the chirp of birds they could not see, and wondered if any of the creatures that lived in this rainforest were some that he might recognize, both from first-hand experience and the encyclopedias he’d read about all of the known creatures in the realms.

Aerin had no idea how Iliana knew what direction they were traveling in or how she managed to keep them on a straight course. But then he remembered how she had found the lake in the Deadwood simply by looking at the way the trees grew and decided not to question her.

“So,” Iliana said, slowing down so Aerin was right behind her. “You trust Borte?” Aerin’s brows furrowed. Trust? He wasn’t sure that he necessarily trusted her, but he didn’t exactly mistrust her, either. “I don’t know about that, but I believe everything she’s told us so far. I don’t think she would turn on us. Do you think she will?”

“No,” Iliana replied and Aerin relaxed by a fraction. He didn’t know if he trusted Borte, but he trusted Iliana. And if she had also deemed Borte to be of no concern, he could rest a bit easier knowing that his judgment was supported. “Actually, I hate to admit it but… I kind of like her. She’s blunt and a bit rude but she’s smart. And obviously powerful.”

Aerin nodded even though she could not see him. He certainly agreed with that but… where was Iliana going with this?

Iliana was silent for a few moments and Aerin could picture the way her mouth screwed to the side, her brows knit together, and her jaw worked whenever she was sifting through her thoughts. When she finally spoke, her words were not what Aerin was expecting. “I think she would be a strong ally against the Empire of Ash. As would the rest of the Avian Kingdom. I spoke to Killian and Morrigan this morning―their clan would defend the realm from the Empire. They believe the others would follow as well, if we have the Old Gods on our side. Which we will,” she added firmly. “We must.”

Aerin gaped at her back. Since they had arrived in Rysoth, all Aerin could do was worry about finding the Old Gods and whenever he wasn’t fretting about that, he was gazing at the aerial city and its people in wonder. He had not even thought once about what would happen after the Cave but Iliana apparently had. 

_ Allies, _ he thought dazedly. Yes, they would need them. Somehow, after explaining their situation to the Khagan, Killian, Morrigan, and Borte, the reality of what was to come only began to sink in for Aerin  _ now. _ They were going to war. He did not know when―only that it would be soon.

“You’re right,” Aerin replied, even as he frowned.  _ He  _ was the one who was supposed to be thinking ahead, who was supposed to come up with the solutions to their problems. But at least he could take some comfort in knowing that Iliana could manage things on her own, that when he was gone, she could get them out of this mess. Perhaps she could even get them through this war.

Aerin felt something dig into the inside of his wrist and curled his hand, brushing his fingers over the smooth hilt of a hidden blade.

_ “The prince that returns will not be the same that leaves tomorrow morning.” _

_ Aerin’s brows drew together and instinctively, he shook his head in denial, even as her words struck a chord deep within him and reverberated with absolute certainty. “There must be _ ―”

_ “There isn’t,” Borte interjected swiftly, holding up one hand. “But I’m not going to waste my time convincing you of what is already known. I am giving you your way out of a death sentence. It is up to you whether or not you use it.” _

_ She pressed something small and smooth into the palm of his hand and folded his fingers around it with her own. When Aerin looked down, he saw that she had given him a small ritual blade. A length of twine was wrapped around the ornate hilt, which appeared to be carved of ivory.  _

_ “You can still make the contract,” she whispered, keeping her voice low so that only he could hear. “All you need to do is use this knife to _ ―”

Aerin heard a loud  _ crack! _ and snapped himself out of the memory as he felt a sharp pain lance through the side of his face, followed by a mild stinging sensation. He let out a startled cry and lifted his hand to the afflicted cheek just as Iliana turned, her eyes widening. “Aerin!”

He watched a range of emotions flicker across her face―shock, penitence, sympathy, then amusement―as her bright eyes traveled from the bright welt mark on his cheek to the swaying stalk that had caused it. A startled laugh slipped through her lips, which she immediately stifled with the back of her hand.

Aerin scowled, rubbing his cheek to alleviate the sting as he glared at the offending plant, then shifted his attention to Iliana. When he spoke, his tone was dry, although it lacked any bite. “You’re certainly amused.”

“I’m not,” she said quickly, although she clearly was. She smiled like she was trying hard not to and shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny. Although I  _ did _ tell you to pay attention.” A thoughtful expression crossed her face as she reached out and lightly tapped his temple with a tenderness he had not been prepared for. “You wandered off again.”

“Just thinking about things,” he replied as her hand slid down to cup the side of his face, her thumb gently brushing over the welt. 

Iliana’s lips twisted wryly. “You always are.”

Despite himself, Aerin laughed and his heart jumped at the way Iliana’s eyes seemed to brighten at the sound. Before he could react, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek, her hand dropping from his face to seize his hand. She squeezed his fingers, her thumb swiping over the back of his hand, which was laced through with dark veins. He could feel the cold kiss of the signet ring―his signet ring―against his skin. Aerin realized he was so attuned to her, so dangerously aware of every little thing she did, he wondered for a moment if he had been born seeking her touch.

Iliana pulled back, and he wished she didn’t. She gave him a bashful smile. “Better?”

For a moment, he had completely forgotten why she had kissed him, which meant his answer was a resounding yes. “Much.”

“Good,” she replied, releasing his hand and turning back around, although she threw him a stern look over her shoulder. “Now,  _ please _ pay attention.”

Another burst of air left Aerin’s lips in a puff as he bowed his head deferentially. “Yes, my lady.”

Iliana scoffed as she continued forward, brushing the lofty plants aside. This time, Aerin was cautious not to let any of them thwack him in the face again. Iliana let out an amused hum. “After your father dubbed me Champion of the Realm, everyone addressed me like that. It was always ‘my lady  _ this _ ’ and ‘my lady  _ that. _ ’” She glanced back, a single fine brow raised. “You know what they used to call me back in Riverbend when I was growing up?”

Aerin tilted his head, curiosity piqued. He rather liked hearing about Iliana’s life before all of this, before he knew her. “What?”

“‘ _ Street urchin,’ _ ” she huffed, although she sounded more amused than bitter, as if she couldn’t help but harbor a fondness for all of the people that belonged to the town that raised her. “‘Gutter rat.’ So when people started calling me ‘my lady,’ I found it more irritating than flattering because I knew that if I wasn’t your father’s Champion, they probably wouldn’t even give me―an orphaned elf from a backwater town―the time of day.” 

Iliana sniffed. “‘My lady.’ It’s ridiculous. Although,” she added after a moment of contemplation, glancing back at him once more. “I don’t mind it nearly as much when you’re the one saying it.”

Aerin grinned and shook his head. He knew she was only teasing, but he found himself thinking that he would gladly call her whatever she wanted him to. 

As they trekked on, the buzzing of insects grew louder and more incessant, nearly drowning out the other sounds of the rainforest. Before long, Iliana swore viciously and clapped her hand over her arm. “Damned bugs,” she muttered, nose wrinkling in disgust as she wiped a purplish stain off her palm on a nearby leaf. “Borte’s directions said we’d find them, so we must be going in the right direction.”

Aerin heard something whiz by his ear, then felt a slight but startling pinch below the nape of his neck. Immediately, Aerin slapped his hand against the back of his neck and inwardly cringed as he felt something squish beneath his palm. He grimaced, wiping the guts on a leaf, just as Iliana had done, before checking the bite. Already, the skin around it had begun to itch. 

As he delicately prodded the back of his neck, Aerin’s fingertips brushed over a choppy patch of hair that was shorter than the rest at the base of his skull. Immediately, his other hand went to his pocket, feeling around for its contents. Aerin was both comforted and unnerved as his fingers closed around the lock of hair he had cut that morning and bound with twine, just as he had been instructed to do.

Before that pit of dread in his stomach could yawn open and swallow him whole, Aerin was roused from his thoughts as Iliana gasped in front of him. He whipped his head up just in time to see her part the last of the stalks aside and step out into the sunlight that awaited on the other side. When Aerin emerged behind her and laid eyes on whatever it was that had made her gasp, he felt his jaw slacken and his mouth fall open in awe. “By the Light…”

They had entered some sort of clearing ringed by massive, lush trees, each of which were populated by strange birds with brilliant plumage that were so vibrant, their feathers were almost an assault on the eyes. And at the center of the clearing roamed three creatures that Aerin recognized as lizards, although these were much  _ much _ larger than any he had ever seen. Aerin sincerely thought that after being snatched out of the skies by a woman with wings, nothing else could surprise him, but as he stared at lizards that were as big as horses, he was stunned once again into silence.

“Pinch me,” Iliana breathed, staring at the great beasts as they slowly crawled around, clambering down the thick tree trunks. Their massive bodies were covered in shiny black scales that reflected green in the dappled sunlight and long, pink tongues flicked out from their crescent moon mouths, snatching those pesky bugs out of the sky.

“What?” Aerin replied, still too awestruck to process her request.

“I said ‘pinch me,’” she repeated, still gaping at the massive lizards, whose large, soil-colored eyes seemed to pay them no mind. Aerin looked over at her, brows furrowed, then reached out and pinched her forearm.

“Ow, okay, so this isn’t a dream,” Iliana concluded, rubbing her arm as she blinked in confusion, as if doing so might erase the scene before her like some sort of mirage. 

_ No, certainly not a dream, _ Aerin thought. Even his childhood dreams had never gotten this bizarre.

They stared at the creatures for a few moments longer before Iliana asked, “Do you think someone has ever ridden them?”

“I…” Aerin tore his gaze away from the lizard to fix her with a cautioning look. “Please do not tell me you’re thinking of trying to do that.”

She shook her head. “No. Of course not. We don’t have time for that,” she replied, although by now, Aerin knew her well enough to recognize the mischievous look in her eye. “But you have to admit it would probably be kind of fun if we did.”

Aerin considered it and admitted that she was probably right, although he was not about to tell her that. Riding one of those creatures was probably as dangerous as it was fun, even if they only appeared to move at a snail’s pace. 

_ Baldur would have loved to see this place.  _ The thought rose to the forefront of his mind and Aerin felt a sharp pang in his chest at the memory of his brother. The contempt he held for the Crown Prince and his cruelty was a knife that still had not been removed, but it seemed that time had softened his hatred. Whether that was a good thing or not―a weakness or a strength―Aerin wasn’t sure. But it seemed that something had changed within him nonetheless.

Aerin considered the giant beasts and could almost hear Baldur’s musing about how nice their heads would look mounted over his fireplace. He huffed.  _ That would be just like him. To take something magnificent and reduce it to a ghost of what it once was. _

But even those thoughts lacked the bitterness they once did.

Aerin shook his head, then brushed his fingers over the back of Iliana’s hand. “What do Borte’s directions say to do next?”

Iliana gazed at the giant lizards for a few more moments, then forced herself to look away and withdraw the piece of parchment from her pocket. As she studied the hastily scratched words, then their surroundings, Aerin grazed the hilt of the sheathed blade strapped to the inside of his forearms with his fingertips, just to reassure himself that it was still there. Although if he was being honest, a small part of him wished it wasn’t.

“She said to continue moving northeast until we reach… a ravine?” Iliana said at last, scanning the directions once more before turning in one direction and holding out her arm. “So, that way.”

Aerin waved his hand. “After you.”

Iliana rolled her eyes although a smile tugged on the corner of her lips as she adjusted the strap that fastened her quiver to her back and continued on. As they walked, Iliana fanned her face, grumbling about the heat and humidity as she combed her slender fingers through her long, dark hair. When she began to plait it back, Aerin saw his opportunity.

“I can do that for you,” he piped up and Iliana’s fingers stilled. Fearing he had sounded too eager, Aerin added, “If you want, I mean.”

Iliana paused, glancing back at him. “You want to braid my hair? Do you know how?”

“I want to help you.” Aerin shrugged. That much was true. He only wished it was a truth he had offered her to hide his deceit. “And I’m certain I can figure it out.”

Iliana studied him for a few moments and there was a warmth in her gaze that made him feel at once giddy and sick. Then she shrugged, pulled a length of ribbon from her pocket, and tossed it his way. “Knock yourself out.”

It took a few tries for Aerin to get the hang of braiding, but before long, the silken strands were sliding through his graceful fingers with ease, even as he continued to walk while plaiting. Distantly, Aerin wondered how she managed to deal with so much hair―it seemed like such a hassle to deal with. When Aerin finally got to the end, he left a few inches unbraided before he tied it off with the ribbon. Then quickly, before he could lose his nerve or garner any suspicion, Aerin withdrew the knife sheathed at his forearm and severed the end of Iliana’s braid. He tied the strands into a knot and shoved them into his pocket before sheathing the blade.

“Done,” Aerin told her when he was done. His heart stuttered in his chest when she reached back, and for a moment, Aerin feared she might pull it over her shoulder for inspection, but instead, Iliana only ran her fingers over the plait, testing for any loose pieces.

“Hm,” she hummed, arm falling back to her side. “Not bad, princeling. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Aerin replied, even as his stomach twisted.

They wound through the rainforest for a little while longer before they finally came upon the ravine Borte spoke of. There were trees that grew at the bottom of the canyon that rose above the top of the cliff, but it was still tall enough that a fall would be lethal.

“Now what?” Aerin asked as he gazed over the side of the bluff.

“Well,” Iliana said, her exasperation evident as she consulted the directions once more, then tucked them back into her pocket. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, then put her hands on her hips and peered over the edge of the cliff. “We’re supposed to climb down it.”

Aerin stared at her blankly. Did he  _ look _ like the type of person that knew how to climb a cliff, much less actually do so? He sighed. “Of course we are.”

“You cannot tell me that the dwarf did all of this on her own,” Iliana huffed, blowing a piece of hair out of her face. She started forward and Aerin’s heart nearly leapt out of his throat when she leaned over the edge and pointed toward a small ledge that ran from the edge of the cliff all the way to the canyon floor. “We can use that ledge to get down.”

Aerin frowned. The fissure barely looked wide enough to allow a toehold. They would have to shimmy down the surface of the cliff, searching for handholds as they went. For a moment, Aerin could not help but wonder if all of this was worth the trouble―if  _ he _ was worth the trouble.

“Come on,” Iliana said, her gaze burning into his skin as if she had sensed his thoughts and only strengthened her resolve in response. “Let’s go. We shouldn’t waste any time.”

Aerin frowned but did not argue. Iliana went first and as expected, the ledge was hardly wide enough to hold the toes of their boots. Aerin scraped his fingertips raw as he clawed for any cracks in the cliffside for handholds. Every time a breeze swept through the canyon, he flattened himself to the wall, knuckles whitening with the strain.

When they were about a fourth of the way down the incline, Iliana glanced back at him, panting lightly as her hand scrabbled over the surface for another handhold. “So… you were really considering Borte’s offer.”

Aerin felt his blood run cold. She wanted to talk about this now? While they were one misstep away from plummeting to the forest floor? Or perhaps that was why she wanted to talk about it now―he would be too distracted to avoid her questions. One glance at Iliana told him that he had assumed correctly. A few steps below him, she had paused, waiting expectantly. Aerin wondered if the girl from Riverbend would ever stop getting the best of him.

Aerin shrugged as best as he could without accidentally losing his grip on the wall. “You cannot deny that her proposal had some merit.”

Iliana let out a disgusted noise that told him exactly what she thought about Borte’s plan. “I certainly can,” she spat, shimmying along the ledge once more. “Aerin, what she was suggesting with that contract… It was awful.”

The way she spoke, with so much revulsion and disdain… Aerin found it at once both unbelievably endearing and devastating.

“I’d be alive,” he offered in counter, even as his stomach roiled. “And you would have power. One more ally against the Great Conquerors.”

“An ally?” she hissed, glaring at the wall in front of her. “You’d be little more than a servant with no will. A beast on a chain. It’s immoral. I couldn’t do that to you.”

_ You wouldn’t have to, _ Aerin thought sadly, although he did not dare to voice those words.  _ I would do it for you. _

“You wouldn’t even be you anymore, Aerin,” Iliana mumbled, her voice quiet and weak. Her next words made him shudder. “I would rather you be dead than have you suffer by my hand.”

Aerin did not know what to say to that. But he realized for the first time that he would not be the only one who would pay for his power.

“It doesn’t matter,” Aerin replied, carefully sliding his foot along the ledge as they edged their way down. “It will never happen.”

Aerin wondered if that could still be considered a lie if he hoped it was true.

Once, lying had come so easily to Aerin. For years, he had dealt more falsehoods than truths and had done so without even flinching in order to get what he wanted, what he believed the kingdom needed. But now, every false word he gave her felt like another spike pounded in between his bones, splitting his soul.

They kept going in silence, slowly moving down the ledge one step at a time. Aerin’s fingers stung from small abrasions and his arms trembled with the effort. The sunlight that poured in between the shifting canopy grew watery as the sun began its descent through the sky. But miraculously, they finally made it to the bottom of the cliff.

When they reached the ground, Aerin unslung his pack and let it thud to the ground, his muscles aching in sweet relief as he sat down and pressed his back to the rock wall, absolutely winded. Iliana sat down heavily beside him and unhooked her water skin from her belt before drinking heartily. When she was done, she offered it to him but Aerin declined. “I have my own.”

She nodded and plugged the stopper, refastening the skin to her belt. Aerin felt her head drop against his shoulder and her hand slipped into his, but it wasn’t until he sensed a brilliant warmth bloom against his palm that he realized what she was doing.

Aerin frowned at Iliana as the cuts in his hands resealed themselves and strength returned to his sore muscles. “You shouldn’t do that.”

She shrugged dismissively, her hand still intertwined with his, even after her Light faded. “It’s nothing. Borte said you’re going to need every ounce of strength to survive the purification process.”

Aerin did not know how to tell her that it wasn’t ‘nothing.’ Not without sounding like a hypocrite. It was, after all, his expenditure of the Shadow that got him in this mess in the first place. But to that point, he had really just rushed to meet the inevitable.

They sat there for a little while longer, taking the opportunity to rest and catch their breath. Aerin swore internally when Iliana untangled herself from him and reached into her pocket to examine the directions once more. She stood, dusted off her clothes, and pointed in some direction. “We’re almost there. Just a little further.”

Aerin sighed and forced himself to his feet. If he had been made of wood, he was certain his limbs would have groaned. 

Admittedly, he did feel better than before. Iliana’s Light soothed any aches and pains he had felt prior to their break, the weight on his back felt less burdensome, and he could not be certain, but the darkness that coursed through his veins looked a little less oppressive.

As they continued trekking through the rainforest, Aerin found himself wishing he had a journal to jot down notes on the captivating plants they passed. He was pretty sure there was not a single account in all of Morella that documented even half of the flora he had since he and Iliana embarked on this solo quest only hours ago.

“When all of this is over,” Iliana said, stealing the words right out of his mouth. “I think I’d like to come back here, to Rysoth. There’s so much here that I never could have even dreamed of back at home.”

Aerin tore his gaze away from the surrounding forest to fix her with a thoughtful look. Everything she said left him wanting more. “What was it like? Growing up in Riverbend?”

It was strange, how Aerin felt as if he knew so much about Iliana―as if he had known her all his life―yet knew very little at the same time.

“It was… nice,” she admitted, although there was a hesitance in her voice that made Aerin less inclined to believe it.

“You don’t sound very sure about that.”

He heard her huff and could picture her smile. “It was home, you know? The people there helped raise me. Everything I learned was because of them, even if it did take a while for me to really feel… accepted, I guess.”

Aerin’s brows drew together. “Accepted?”

“Yeah.” Iliana’s shoulders lifted in a shrug as she glanced back at him. “I mean, I didn’t have it nearly as bad as an orc would, but… well, there hadn’t been an elf in Riverbend in years before me. Not everyone was exactly welcoming at first. Nobody’s forgotten that humans were once servants to the elven empire.”

Aerin’s expression darkened. “That was centuries ago.”

“That didn’t stop them from taking out their anger on me,” Iliana said quietly and Aerin felt something dark and vengeful snap its jaws from the pit of his stomach―this beast, he knew, had nothing to do with the Shadow. Before Aerin could reply, Iliana shrugged again, nonchalant once more. “But it doesn’t matter. That’s why I learned to fight. To show them that they could hate me for what I was but I wouldn’t let them make me hate myself.”

Aerin couldn’t help but think of a time when he had hated her too―or at least he thought he did. Looking back at those first few months of his imprisonment, Aerin realized that the anger he had projected onto the memory of her and the world around him had only ever been what he felt for himself and could not yet face.

“So when I met Tyril,” Iliana continued, her voice soft and laced through with an affection Aerin had learned not to be jealous of. “The bond was almost instantaneous. Surprising for Tyril, I know,” she joked, laughing lightly as she shook her head. “But I was the first elf he’d ever met outside of Undermount’s boundaries―the first outside of his family and Kaya that he felt he could trust. And he was well… the first elf I had ever met in general. When I ran into him in Port Parnassus, it was the first time I had ever seen someone like me.”

Well, that was one thing he and Tyril had in common. The moment they crossed paths with Iliana, everything they knew came crashing down.

Aerin swallowed hard. She had just shared something personal. It was only right that he offer something up in return. “Iliana, when I first met you―”

His confession was cut short when Iliana inhaled sharply and halted in her tracks, raising her hand for him to stop. She tilted her head like a predator listening for its prey, angling her delicately arched ear in the direction of some sound Aerin could not hear.

She glanced back at him, her green eyes wide. “Do you hear that?"

Before Aerin could answer “no,” Iliana grabbed his hand and tugged him forward, a dazzling smile gracing her lips. Aerin’s pack slapped against his back so hard, he feared he might have bruised his tailbone as their feet pounded the earth, racing towards whatever it was Iliana had identified. They stormed up an incline, leaping over rocks and roots, and it was not long before Aerin heard it too―water.

His heart skipped in his chest, seizing with both anticipation and dread. The rift was nearby and there, Aerin would either find salvation or his end.

The distant rush of water grew to a roar and Aerin felt Iliana’s fingers tighten around his as they reached a break in the trees and emerged into a dazzling glade. Willowy trees framed a sparkling lake of the deepest blue Aerin had ever seen. On the northern border of the lake towered a grand waterfall, the source of all of the noise.

“It’s real. We actually found it.” A startled laugh fell from Iliana’s lips and she turned to Aerin, face alight with joy. “It’s just like…” Her face softened into something warm and tender that left Aerin breathless. She slipped her fingers from his, trailing them along the inside of his wrist, up his arm, and across his chest until her palm laid over his heart. “It’s just like the forest glade. Do you remember?”

Did he remember? Aerin had never heard an easier question. He covered her hand with his. “I never forgot.”

Iliana stared at him for a few moments, her eyes bright and practically glowing with an inner light. The air around her seemed to shimmer and Aerin could not tell if that was from the Light that flourished all around them, or if it was just her. For a moment, Aerin thought she might kiss him again.

But then her lips split into another grin and she turned away, grabbing his forearm and pulling him toward the shore. “Come on,” she told him cheerfully. “Let’s get this over with.”

Aerin allowed her to drag him down to the water’s edge, his heart pitter-pattering anxiously in his chest as their boots sunk into the soggy bank. Eager to see this process through, Iliana plucked Aerin’s waterskin off his belt, quickly emptied it, filled it with the sparkling water of the lake, and held it out to him. Aerin carefully took it, his blood thundering in his ears.

_ This is it. _

As if sensing his unease, Iliana reached out and squeezed his knee encouragingly, her warmth comforting. Aerin swallowed the lump in his throat and took a deep breath, gathering his courage. Then, he lifted the water skin to his lips and drank.

Aerin did not know what to expect. A burning sensation, like drinking liquid fire? Or something colder than ice? The water was pleasantly cool and tasted faintly of moss, but that was about all he could say about it.

Aerin lowered the water skin and waited expectantly. Nothing.

Iliana’s brow furrowed, her fingers working anxiously in her lap as she glanced between Aerin and the lake. “Maybe you need to drink more?”

Aerin wasn’t so sure about that but decided it was worth a try. He drank again, gulping down the water, his stomach swelling until he thought he might get sick from drinking any more. Aerin emptied the water skin and dropped it in his lap. They waited for a while in silence, waiting for some sort of reaction. But nothing happened.

Aerin chest tightened. “Iliana, I don’t think―”

“Don’t,” she told him, shaking her head as she got to her feet. Her face was hard, set with determination and denial, but her eyes told him that she had come to the same conclusion. “Don’t say what I think you’re going to say.”

“Iliana―”

“Aerin,” she cut him off swiftly, her hand slashing through the empty air. “I said  _ don’t. _ ”

He frowned, certainty sinking to the bottom of his stomach like a leaden weight. “Eventually, you’re going to have to let me talk.”

“Not if you’re going to say anything ridiculous,” she snapped, stalking away to walk along the perimeter of the lake. 

“Where are you going?” Aerin called after her, brows drawing together. 

“I’m looking around,” she replied resolutely. “There has to be something else we missed. Just wait there.”

Aerin opened his mouth to argue, but he did not have the heart to tell her that there was no use. They had come here for the water and the water did not work. Why would anything else? He sighed, gazing at the scenery around them. It really was quite beautiful, this rift. The vegetation that grew nearby was even more vibrant than the rest and somehow, the air even seemed sweeter, more benevolent.

Although there had never been a firmly established religion in Morella, the main one that was followed by most―including the Valleros family―was the Faith of the Light. Aerin had strayed from the Light long ago in favor of the Dreadlord and his promises, but he would be lying if the events of the last few weeks had not reawakened his faith. Finding places like this, like the glade in the Deadwood, and finding people like Iliana, Kade, Imtura, and the others… It made him want to believe in something good again, something bigger than himself. The Temple may have been corrupt, but then again, so was almost everything else he knew. Just because the priests were corrupt, that didn’t mean that the things they believed in had to be forsaken as well.

And just because he was now corrupt… well, that did not discount the good he had once done, or the good he could still do.

Aerin pulled the locks of hair from his pocket and stood.

_ “You can still make the contract,” Borte whispered, keeping her voice low so that only he could hear. “All you need to do is use this knife to cut a lock of your hair and hers, bind it with this string, and speak these words… _ ”

Aerin used the twine that had been wrapped around the hilt of Borte’s blade to tie the lock of his hair―coarse and curled―to hers―fine and silken. He watched as Iliana disappeared on some sort of ledge behind the waterfall, then rose to follow.

Aerin was scared―No. Not scared. Terrified. Terrified of what was to become of him when the Shadow warped him into something unrecognizable,  _ unloveable  _ once more. He was terrified of losing control, both to the Shadow and to someone else, no matter how much he trusted them.

_ You have always been out of control, _ his subconscious whispered.  _ How is this any different? _

He was terrified that even with this sacrifice, his last offering would still not be enough to protect the others from the dangers that were to come. They wouldn’t have his mind, but they would have his power. It was all that he had left to give.

Aerin forced the trembling in his hands to subside as he picked his way across the dark, mist-sprayed rocks that led to the waterfall where he had last seen Iliana. The wind and the cool water from the falls blasted him, soaking his clothes and drowning out his fearmongering subconscious. Aerin shivered against the cold, instantly forgetting the heat that had plagued him all day. He had just hauled himself up on the outcropping of dark volcanic rock that appeared to disappear behind the waterfall when Iliana reemerged, breathless.

He did not notice the way her eyes shone with barely restrained hope and glee, nor did he notice the flower snared between her fingers, whose leaves were a deep familiar purple. Iliana’s face fell, her gaze flicking from his face, so grave and resigned, to his hands, which held the locks of their hair. Her eyes widened in confusion and fear.

Aerin drew himself up to his full height and willed his voice to be strong and clear, even as his hands shook. He held up the locks of hair, just as Borte had instructed him to do and spoke. “Iliana Nightbloom, I swear myself into your service. I will act as your sword. I will act as your shield. Anything you will shall be my com―”

Iliana sprung forward, the flower in her hand slipping from her fingers and floating on the wind before being pummeled beneath the falling water. She knocked the locks from his hands and clamped her hand over his mouth before he could finish the vow, eyes wide and frantic.

“What the hells, Aerin?” she breathed, too stunned to be furious. She watched as their bound locks disappeared into the swirling white water below, then dragged her gaze back up to meet his. “You tried to make the contract.”

With her hand still firmly placed over his mouth, Aerin could only blink in confirmation. Iliana’s brows instantly pulled up and drew together, as if guided by an invisible string, and she pursed her trembling lips. For one horrible moment, Aerin thought she might cry.

But then her brows lowered and she glared at him. “You’re a damned fool. A self-sacrificing, stubborn fool, Aerin Valleros,” she snapped, pulling her hand from his mouth as the other gripped his wrist. “Don’t think we’re done talking about this.”

Before Aerin could even reply, she tugged him forward, guiding him along to the edge and behind the waterfall to―

―to a cave.

Aerin blinked in bewilderment. He had not seen this entrance from the lake’s shore, would not have known  _ anything _ even laid behind the falls. It was completely hidden by the falling water, but as he stood in front of it, Aerin could hear the hollow sound of wind echoing through its hidden depths. Somehow, Aerin knew that was how Iliana had found it. Her heightened senses must have picked up what he could not perceive.

“If you would have just listened to me… Had a little faith,” Iliana muttered beneath her breath as she pulled him into the darkness. They traveled a short distance down some sort of natural passageway until the roar of the waterfall faded to a soft whisper. When the tunnel opened up into a large cavern, Iliana pulled him to a stop and continued, “You would have seen that Borte was wrong. The water won’t cleanse you of the Shadow. But  _ these  _ will.”

Aerin gaped at the cave’s interior. On the other side of the cavern, dappled by the light that streamed through cracks in the ceiling, sat an entire glade of indigo moonblooms.


	25. Burnout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rise and fall of the Prince of Shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: blood, death, and violence.

Iliana was going to kill that dwarf woman.

_ Damn you, Borte, _ Iliana’s subconscious snarled along with a long string of more foul phrases as she angrily crushed the indigo petals of the moonblooms beneath the pommel of the blade Aerin had handed over. She ground the petals into a dark, sweet-smelling mixture, using a small wooden bowl Killian had slipped into their supplies.

She could not believe that Borte had quite literally gone behind her back and given Aerin instructions to create a contract, could not believe that Aerin had planned to go through with it.  _ Actually, _ she  _ could _ believe that last part. It was just like Aerin to do something like that, to believe that he was of more use to them as a Shadow-wielding beast on a chain than as himself―magic or no. Just the thought of such a ridiculous notion had Iliana gritting her teeth, grinding the butt of the blade harder into the bowl, smashing the petals to a pulp.

“You’re going to break the bowl like that,” Aerin cautioned her as he went about setting up their camp. The look Iliana sent him was so menacing, he quieted down. 

Iliana reached over to the small pile of moonblooms she had already picked and cleansed, plucked off the petals, and added them to her mixture. There was a rustling noise behind her as Aerin laid out their bedrolls atop the folded canvas which they no longer needed for a tent since the cavern was their new shelter. Iliana heard him sigh heavily, then tensed as he sat beside her. 

“I’m sorry,” Aerin said gently, and just the sound of his voice, so near, made her want to cry.

“I’m sure you are,” Iliana snapped as she scowled into the bowl, smashing the petals with renewed vigor.

“Iliana…” Aerin reached out, easing the bowl and blade from her hands. He peered into the bowl and swirled it in his palm, studying the dark purple liquid within. “I think that’s enough―”

“How could you do that?” she demanded, all of the words she had bottled up during their silence finally bubbling over. “How could you make that decision without consulting anyone else? Without consulting me?”

Aerin frowned. “I knew you wouldn’t agree to it. You already said no.”

_ Was that supposed to help his argument?  _ Iliana’s brows lowered. “So you went and did it anyway? I  _ just _ told you that I could not live with that―that contract. You may not have needed my input to make your vow, but I still would have had to deal with the consequences. Do you know what kind of responsibility you would have placed on me? To make me be the one responsible for your… your imprisonment?”

Aerin flinched as if she had struck him but he did not back down. He shook his head, voice impossibly diplomatic. “I didn’t know that the moonblooms were here. I thought we had run out of solutions and I knew that by the time we returned to the others, it would have been too late.” There was a slight tremor in his voice but beyond that, his voice was so calm, it was frustrating. “You would have either had to kill me or make the contract, and I would have been more useful to everyone on a leash, no matter the consequences. This war is bigger than the two of us.”

“Well, I don’t care about the war right now, Aerin!” Iliana snapped, throwing up her hands as she glared at him. “I care about  _ you. _ ”

He went still, his chest barely moving.

Iliana went on. “Why do you think we’re here right now? Because I think we need to purify you so you can help us find the Old Gods? So you can help us fight the Empire of Ash?  _ No. _ We’re here because I want you to live. I don’t want Nia or Tyril or me to have to kill you. And I don’t want any of us to have to order you around either.” 

Her voice broke but she kept going. “You aren’t just a pawn to me, Aerin. A means to an end. It’s true that when I first brought you on this journey, it was so that you can help me find Kade. But you were never disposable. Especially not now. Don’t you understand?”

Aerin stared at her for a few moments, then dipped his chin like a child being scolded. “I do.”

Iliana let out a heavy exhale and shook her head. “No,” she replied, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, then combing her fingers through her hair, undoing the braid. The ends of her hair were now choppy and uneven, but she could not bring herself to care. Iliana pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t think you do.” 

Iliana did not even think she understood it―this strange feeling she harbored, the very one that muddled her mind and tore the ground from beneath her feet.

Aerin didn’t respond to that, either because he didn’t have anything to say or he knew nothing could justify to her what he had almost done.

Iliana dropped her hands into her lap, emotionally exhausted from her outburst and the fear she’d felt earlier when she realized what he was trying to do with the contract. “Just… no more of this, Aerin.  _ Please. _ No more solo decisions about things that concern your life,” she pleaded, her exasperation as clear as her sincerity. “Whether you like it or not, whether you choose to accept it, other people  _ do _ care if you live or die. When you insert yourself into other people’s lives, you give up the right to be the only one who can care about your wellbeing.” 

She pursed her lips, studying Aerin’s solemn expression for a few moments before she sighed again and let all of her anger go with the air in her lungs. Despite everything, it was hard to cling to her anger where Aerin was concerned. Perhaps she was forgiving him too easily and perhaps that meant he made her weak. But if Aerin was a sore in her heart, then he was a wound she hoped never healed, that would always hurt just a little bit, just so she knew he was still there. Iliana leaned forward, laying her hands over his. “No more of that, alright?”

Aerin nodded, and this time, Iliana knew she had gotten her point across. “Alright.”

Something in her chest eased ever so slightly at that, although they were not out of the woods yet. Iliana dropped her gaze to the bowl between their hands and felt her stomach twist itself into anxious knots. They should do this now, rather than waste any more valuable time. “Is there anything else it needs?”

Aerin’s gaze flicked between her eyes, then down to the elixir. “No. This is it.”

Iliana glanced toward their bedrolls and Aerin seemed to pick up on her train of thought.  _ Best to get comfortable, first. We’ll be here for a while. _

As Aerin settled in, Iliana got their fire started, positioning it beneath one of the vents in the cave so they didn’t get smoked out. They had brought their own food from the Aerie―courtesy of Killian’s supplies―but the fire was as much for warmth as it was for light. Overhead, the light that streamed between the cracks in the ceiling became watery as the sun continued its descent toward the horizon and night fell.

When everything was ready, Iliana sat beside Aerin, anxiously laying out all of the blankets they had brought. She had no idea if he would need them―if he would be taken by chills or a fever―but it was better to be prepared for anything than not. It wasn’t until Iliana took her own pillow and set it atop Aerin’s that he grabbed her hands, stilling them in their work.

“You’re fussing again,” he told her, warming her bloodless fingers between his. 

Iliana opened her mouth to argue, then realized he was right. She shrugged bashfully. “I guess it’s a habit. When Kade was really young, he got really sick. Bedridden until he was six and I was eight. It was my job to take care of him when Amphitryon or Alcmene―the farmers that raised us―couldn’t.” 

Aerin nodded as if he already knew this. It occurred to Iliana that he probably had. After all, he and Kade had kept each other company for months following the battle in the Shadow Realm while she had been busy galavanting around Morella. What a fool she had been, to go off and pretend that everything was alright when she knew that it hadn’t been for a long, long time. 

“Then I am in capable hands,” Aerin replied as his thumbs swept over her knuckles reassuringly. How was it that he was the one who was preparing to walk the boundary between life and death but  _ she  _ was the one that needed comforting? 

“I don’t know if I would say that,” Iliana admitted, shaking her head. “I was always better at keeping him company than I was at actually being useful.”

Aerin tilted his head. “Keeping someone company through a hard time  _ is _ being useful.”

Iliana pressed her lips together and swallowed the lump in her throat. She nodded, lacing her fingers through his and promised, “Then at the very least, that is what I will do. I’ll be here.”

Aerin nodded quietly, gratefully, and the silence that hung in the air between them weighed heavily with a sort of finality that told them exactly what they already knew: it was time.

Aerin squeezed her hand once more, then withdrew it to take the bowl of moonbloom extract. Before he could drink from it, Iliana asked, “Aren’t you afraid?”

Aerin set the bowl in his lap and thought for a moment, then answered, “No.”

Iliana was not sure she believed that. “Then you are either a fool or a liar.”

Aerin gave her a small smile. “Perhaps I am both.”

At that moment, Iliana wanted to kiss him. But if she did, it feared it might feel too much like a goodbye.

“One of us has to be brave,” Aerin said softly, his bright hazel eyes searching hers. She wondered what he found there, if he liked it nearly as much as she liked what she found in his. “It doesn’t always have to be you.”

But even after he said that, Iliana did not miss the tremor in his hands as he lifted the bowl to his lips nor did she miss the way he hesitated before drinking. 

_ A liar, then,  _ Iliana thought sadly and without any malice as Aerin downed the elixir.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Iliana had the sinking feeling that they had once again found a dead end. But then, Aerin gasped, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks of ink as the bowl clattered to the ground, his fingers spasming uncontrollably.

“Aerin!”

He pitched forward, palms flattening against his bedroll as he dry-heaved, horrible, gasping sounds leaving his lips. Iliana watched in horror as his veins darkened to a shade that was blacker than a moonless night and tremors quaked throughout his body. The Shadow roiled off of his skin, seeping through his pores, but its movements were all wrong. The darkness jerked and twitched, and Iliana was reminded of the time she had watched a few of her childhood tormentors sprinkle salt on a slug. Then, just as quickly as the Shadow had exploded outward, it disappeared, some of it dissipating into smoke, some of it retreating back beneath Aerin’s skin. She could see the magic war within his skin, alternating patches of blue and black chugging through his veins.

Iliana reached for him, her nerves shrieking in alarm and confusion as she laid her hands over his back. Through the thin fabric of his tunic, she could not tell if his skin was so hot it felt cold or if it was so cold it was hot. Perhaps it was both.

Aerin fell from his hands, to his forearms, to his stomach, before rolling onto his side and curling in on himself, panting hard as he squeezed his eyes shut, as if doing so could ward away the pain that was inside.

Iliana knelt beside him, her hands fluttering over his trembling body, uncertain what to do. She thought of Kade, the way he had thrashed in his bed in the throes of a fever. When his screaming and whimpering got to be too much, Amphitryon had always taken her outside to sit on the porch and wait for the sunrise as Alcmene tended to her brother. She wished that just once, she had stayed.

“What do you need?” Iliana asked, trying to keep the fear from her voice.  _ One of us has to be brave,  _ Aerin had said.  _ It doesn’t always have to be you.  _ But he was wrong. Tonight, it did have to be her, because if she wasn’t brave, then she would crumble. She would go sick with the anguish of watching him writhe in pain while she was unable to do a damn thing about it, sick with the fear that she could lose him.

“What do you need?” she repeated because she did not know what else to do. Every strangled gasp made her heart lurch and her bones tremble. Aerin opened his mouth but his reply was cut off by a strangled groan. He clamped his mouth shut, gritting his teeth as he shook his head.

Iliana felt like she was seven years old again, unable to do anything to help as illness after illness threatened to take her brother from their realm. She did not know what to do then and she did not know what to do now. So Iliana did the only thing she could.

Iliana laid her hand over Aerin’s clenched one, offering up the companionship she had promised him today and every day that was to follow. Then, she prayed to the gods, the Old and the New, pleading with them to let the last Valleros prince survive this endless night.

* * *

Looking back, Iliana realized that the purification process had three stages. 

The first was pain.

It was impossible to keep track of time in that cave once the sun had set outside, casting them in a darkness that was only broken by the flickering flames of the campfire. Their shadows danced across the walls of the cavern, his writhing on the floor as hers looked on like some sort of guardian spirit of legend, although Iliana imagined that the spirits the epics all spoke of were not nearly as ornamental as she was. 

It felt as if she had spent hours knelt by Aerin’s side, unable to do more than let him squeeze her hand so tightly she feared he might break bone, and murmur assurances that she was still there whenever he cried out. Iliana knew pain―she had been cut, stabbed, burned, bitten, and shot, all within the last year. But it was a different kind of torture to watch someone she cared about ache while she looked on, completely unharmed.

_ Give me your pain,  _ Iliana thought helplessly, uselessly.  _ Let me carry it for you.  _

There must have been some kind of magic, a sort of spell that would have allowed her to share Aerin’s pain, to take it upon herself. Surely Borte would have known, or even Tyril. She wished she had thought to ask. Maybe if she hadn’t been so impatient…

No. There was no use going down that path of what-ifs. She had been impatient because they were short on time. Perhaps the few moments they would have spent waiting for that spell would have made the difference between Aerin taking the elixir willingly and Iliana having to fight whatever the Shadow made of him for control.

The second stage was the fever.

At some point, Aerin’s pained moans had quieted and the tension drained from his body. His tunic, which had been so thoroughly soaked with sweat it appeared translucent, had been soaked beneath the waterfall and laid out to dry by the fire. Without it, Aerin looked as vulnerable as Iliana had ever seen him, pale and prone at her knees. He looked like the living dead―phantasmal, like an apparition made of moonlight. Even his hair seemed to lack its usual luster. In fact, it looked as if someone had taken Aerin, drafted him in charcoal, then smudged all of the lines, leaving behind only a bare impression of what he once was. The only color he had was a blush that spread across his chest and his gaunt cheeks.

As Aerin lay there with his eyes closed, lips murmuring words that were unintelligible to anyone but him, Iliana used the strips of cloth she had torn from one of the spare blankets to wipe down every exposed inch of burning skin with cold water from the falls. The next time she moved to soak the makeshift rag in her hand with water, she found that the bowl was empty. Time to refill.

But before Iliana could get to her feet, Aerin’s hand snaked out, fingers curling around her wrist. His head lolled to the side as his eyes cracked open, revealing slivers of hazel surrounded by bloodshot scleras. “Don’t go.”

Iliana’s chest tightened even as her heart skipped in something that was akin to relief. She had thought he was unconscious.

“I’m just getting more water,” she explained, but when Aerin’s grip on her wrist did not ease up, she gave in to his wishes, using her waterskin to fill the bowl instead.

“You should sleep,” Aerin rasped, his voice so gravelly and raw, Iliana wondered if it hurt to even speak.

Iliana shook her head, uncurling his fingers from her wrist so that she could take his hand into her own. “I’m okay.”

Aerin frowned and even that simple movement looked like it hurt. “You would say that even if you weren’t okay.”

“So would you,” Iliana replied and Aerin’s chest heaved, exhaling a small puff of air in what might have been a dry laugh. In the silence that followed, Iliana resumed wiping down his burning skin, chasing the fever away. A short while passed before Aerin spoke again.

“I wanted to tell you earlier, before we found the rift,” he mumbled, swallowing hard. His Adam’s apple dropped sharply, the stark shadows outlining the movement. “The way I felt when I first met you.”

Iliana stilled, all of her senses quieting so that all she heard was the sound of her own heart pounding in her chest and Aerin’s ragged breaths. It was an effort to force herself to continue her path, dragging the wet cloth along the swell of his collarbone. “You told me then that you felt as if you could be yourself.”

Aerin shook his head, the movement slight and stilted. “No. Not just that,” he replied. “Or I suppose this came later. After we said goodnight.” Aerin’s eyes roamed across the cave ceiling and when Iliana looked up, she realized he was staring at the stars, barely visible through the fissures that spiderwebbed throughout the volcanic rock. They stared at the specks of starlight in silence for so long, Iliana wondered if Aerin was going to abandon the topic of conversation, but when she dragged her gaze back to him, she saw that he was already gazing at her.

Iliana swallowed hard, flushing beneath his attention. “You were saying?” she prompted.

Aerin studied her for a few moments more before replying, “That was the first time I wondered if it was truly worth it. Everything I had done. Everything I was doing. I had even considered for a moment, what it would be like to give it all up and be the person you thought I was, cowardly and all.”

“I never thought you were a coward, Aerin.” Iliana did not know what to say to any of this, what to think. She had no idea how conflicted he had been… 

_ Of course, you didn’t, _ she chided herself.  _ You weren’t supposed to.  _

Iliana shook her head. “Why didn’t you? Give it up?”

Aerin shrugged weakly. “I still wanted it. Power. Control. To fix the kingdom. And if I had been brave enough to give it up, he would have killed me.”

Iliana did not need to ask who  _ he _ was.

“It doesn’t matter,” she told him, reaching down to squeeze his hand. “You’re here now.”

“It does,” he mumbled, gaze roaming over her face. “To me it does.”

Once again, Iliana was at a loss for words. She was not sure she understood what that meant and even if she did, she didn’t think she’d have anything good to say. Instead, she gathered a confession of her own, withdrawing her hand from his to take up the cloth once more. Iliana dunked the rag in the bowl, then dragged it across Aerin’s chest, her gaze lingering on the twisted knot of scar tissue at the center.

“I don’t know what I would have done,” Iliana admitted softly, remembering the oppressive heat of the Realm of Shadow, the agony and anguish that simmered through the air, the sense of terror that imposing palace of obsidian had instilled in her. “If I didn’t leave that awful place without you.”

Aerin’s chest stilled beneath her palm and she felt his eyes bore into her skin although she did not lift her gaze from the scar that marked where the Nerada Stone had once been.

“I don’t know what I would have done,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “If you had not come back with us from the Shadow Realm. If you did not become… who you are now.” Iliana shook her head, finally forcing herself to meet his stare. “If you were still my enemy, Aerin, I don’t think I could have faced you again.”

Aerin looked pained and for a moment, Iliana thought she had somehow hurt him. Instinctively, she began to remove her touch but Aerin reached out, holding her hand to his chest, right over the scar. She felt his every breath as he shook his head. “You could have,” he said softly, earnestly. “And if you did, you would have won.”   


The thought of that, of facing Aerin on a battlefield, of  _ winning _ … It made Iliana’s chest ache so badly, she thought it might cave in. “No, I wouldn’t have. If I killed you, I would have died, too.”

Aerin’s agonized expression only intensified and Iliana wondered if he discovered the same silent admission in her confession that she did. He shook his head. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

Iliana did not know what that meant either. “Well, it is.”

Iliana realized then that he had never been her enemy, that he never truly could be. An enemy was supposed to be someone you hated, and hatred was very, very far from what she felt for him. The polar opposite. Aerin would just have to accept that. They both would.

Back in Nia’s cottage in Whitetower, when this entire mess had first begun to unravel, one word had swirled around Iliana’s head, over and over and over again.  _ Compromised.  _ She had feared that her attachment to Aerin would cloud her judgment, would prevent her from making the right choice. And perhaps, even then, she had been compromised. But what she was now was so much worse. She was surrendering.

They fell into another silence, although this one was loaded as they thought over all of the things the other had said. Iliana briefly wished that she had not said anything at all. But then she reminded herself that it was Aerin she was talking to, and she wanted him to know everything. When Aerin spoke again, his next words were certainly not what she had been expecting.

“Have you ever heard of the Divine Valleros?”

Iliana blinked, caught off guard by the sudden, although admittedly welcome, shift in their conversation. “No. Please tell me it’s not some ridiculous tale that Baldur made up about himself,” Iliana teased, even as her chest felt tight with worry. She wrung out the strip of cloth, then soaked it in fresh cool water. “It sounds like something he would do.”

Aerin laughed weakly, and that sound, broken as it was, made her heart flutter in her chest. “No. Nothing like that. It’s about my family’s origin. The myth we claim started our rule.”

Iliana leaned in, lightly wiping the rag across his burning forehead. “Tell me about it.”

“I used to read the story all the time as a child. It was one of my favorites.  _ ‘Once upon a time, in a land shrouded in darkness, there lived a young hero who loved his kingdom very much.’ _ ” Aerin closed his eyes, a shaky breath escaping his lips as the cold water brought relief to his burning fever. “That boy was the Divine Valleros. He was but a lowly servant, with not a copper to his name, nor a title.”

“Ah, the classic rags to riches story,” Iliana smiled lightly, smoothing some of his hair away from his temple with her fingers. “This hero sounds a bit like you.”

“I could only wish.” Aerin huffed slightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling, even as he shook his head. “The Divine Valleros was brave and noble, willing to stand against the Shadow Court, even if it meant standing alone. For this, he is said to have been blessed by the Light, and with that power, he single-handedly protected humanity from the elven war with the Dreadlord.”

As his voice grew hoarse, Iliana pulled her waterskin out of her pack and held it to his lips. “Drink.”

“This is yours,” Aerin protested but Iliana only shook her head.

“I’ll get more water later,” she promised, sliding her other hand beneath his head to lift it up. “Right now, you need it more. So drink.”

When she was sure that he had gotten his fill, she set the waterskin aside and wrung out the rag once more. “Then what happened?” she prompted, tilting her head. “How was he rewarded?”

“Who says he was rewarded?” Aerin questioned, although there was a slight curve in the edges of his lips.

“All good legends end with the hero being rewarded,” Iliana replied, soaking up more cold water and running it along his neck. She could feel the warmth of his skin, even through the fabric. “It may not be realistic, but it's how you teach kids to do the right thing.”

“As always, you are right.” Aerin closed his eyes, tongue swiping across his dry lips. “The Divine Valleros was married to the daughter of a Priestess of Light. Their first descendant became the first king of Morella.”

“And the rest is history,” Iliana concluded.

“And so it is,” Aerin agreed, opening his eyes. When they met hers, Iliana saw the sorrow in them. The regret. “The Valleros line began with a man blessed by the Light. I suppose it is fitting that it will end with one cursed by the Shadow.”

Iliana felt her heart plummet. Her chest tightened and she shook her head adamantly, working hard to swallow the sudden lump in her throat. “Aerin. Don’t say that. You’re not… you’re not going to die here.”

His brows drew together. “Iliana―”

“ _ No. _ You are not going to die here, do you understand?” Iliana demanded, her voice becoming choked with sudden emotion. She felt the familiar burning sensation behind her eyes and internally chided herself. She’d be damned if she was going to start crying now. “You’re going to be fine. You aren’t going to die, alright? You don’t get to do that. Not when… Not when…”

She felt the first hot tear streak down her cheek and wiped it away furiously, her hands clenching into fists. “You just don’t get to.”

His gaze was pitying. “Iliana…”

She bared her teeth at him, every bit the wild animal she sometimes suspected he thought she was. “I swear, if you’re going to say―”

“I’m not,” Aerin said softly, his hazel eyes searching her face as his brows knitted. “Just―stop crying.”

He reached out, fitting his palm against her wet cheek. His skin was so hot against hers, but Iliana grabbed his wrist, holding it there. 

“You don’t get to,” she repeated softly, closing her eyes as she turned her face into his hand, her lips barely grazing his hot skin. “Not now.”

“Why?” Aerin whispered, his voice strained.

Iliana opened her eyes, letting her hands fall from his. She was not entirely sure she was even breathing properly anymore as she stared back at him, her heart in her throat.

_ Why?  _ she thought. There were too many reasons, all of them selfish.  _ You know why. _

Iliana set the rag aside and gently took his face in between her hands. He was burning beneath her touch, the fever raging within his skin, but his eyes were as clear as they had been all night as he watched her carefully, waiting for an answer. 

But Iliana did not have one, or at least not one she was brave enough to give yet. Instead, she let her actions speak for themselves and glimpsed the way Aerin’s eyes widened in surprise as she leaned in, then fluttered shut when she pressed her lips to his.

Aerin fit his palm against the back of her neck, fingers tangling into her hair and holding her close. Iliana did not know how it was possible for her chest to feel at once so full yet so empty. 

This kiss was not like the others they had shared. Gone was the desperate, all-consuming hunger, the need to take everything that had been given before it could be torn away. It was cautious and careful. It was a promise and a prelude, the beginning of something that was so much  _ more. _

“Because,” Iliana whispered against his mouth when she finally pulled away.

_ Because I said so. Because I couldn’t bear to lose you then and I can’t bear to lose you now. Because you mean too much to me. Because I have never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. Because I think I might be in love with you. _

None of this, she was daring enough to say aloud.

“Because,” Aerin agreed nevertheless, dazed.

Iliana let her fingers flutter over his cheeks once more, just barely brushing the corner of his lips before she drew back, took up the rag, and began her vigil once more.

The third stage was the quietest. And for that, Iliana thought that perhaps she should be grateful. But deep down, she knew that all illnesses got worse before they got better.

And this was no exception.

* * *

At some point, Aerin had fallen asleep.

Although sleep was not quite the word for it. No, this was delirium. A nightmare.

_ Aerin hated that he was afraid. _

_ He should have been thrilled to finally leave the realm he’d always known for the one of Shadow, the one of his lord and benefactor. It meant that he was moving up in the ranks, that he had gone from ornamental to extremely valuable. Trusted. _

_ But as Aerin sat alone on a stone altar in the shadows of a cold, dark room, the weight of a jagged, crimson stone in his hands _ ― _ the only item he had been instructed to bring aside from his person _ ― _ he only felt fear. _

_ “Hello, new blood.” _

_ Aerin looked up and immediately bowed his head in deference to the proud figure that strode through the doorway. “My lord.” _

Not _ his lord, but another underling. Like him. No, not like him. Aerin would rise above them all. _

_ Aerin could practically smell the pride and satisfaction that rolled off of the man in waves and ground his teeth in quiet defiance. Let them think he was weak. A fool. Desired by the Court only for his station within the Morellian nobility. Let them think he was just another spineless mortal. _

_ Aerin would not admit it, but it was not very hard to pretend. _

_ The man _ ― _ if he could be even called such a thing _ ― _ waved his hand dismissively, his intricate armor clinking with the movement. “We are brothers in Court, are we not? There is no need for that,” he replied, although Aerin could tell that the dark elf reveled in his perceived superiority. And more than that, Aerin knew better than to trust a single member of the Shadow Court. They were all a bunch of snarling hounds _ ― _ himself included _ ― _ bound by the same master, champing at the bit, and hungry for any scraps of power they could get.  _

_ The man tilted his head. “Do you know who I am, prince?” _

_ Aerin sifted through his memory, fitting the descriptions he had read to the figure standing before him. “Baron Vostrasz.” _

_ “You are a smart one.” The dark elf, who was once known as Tameos of House Goldbearer, a former Valen politician and merchant turned strategist and torturer, smiled. It was horrible. “Baron will do just fine.” _

_ His eyes, glowing red irises surrounded by a sea of fathomless black, roamed over Aerin’s boyish countenance, then fell to the gem in his hands. They seemed to glitter with glee, an emotion that seemed so foreign in this realm, Aerin knew better than to feel comforted by it. Instead, dread pooled in his stomach. Whatever sparked joy in a sadist like Tameos must have been something awful. _

_ “I see you have something for me,” Baron crooned, tilting his head as he strode further into the room, the door swinging shut behind him with a jarring finality. No going back now.  _

_ Although Aerin supposed he knew he was past the point of no return when Duchess Xenia had appeared in his quarters in a burst of dark flame without warning. She had smiled at him then, lips pulling a spider’s grin that sent shivers down his spine, and tilted her head, assessing his shock as he dropped the books in his hands, violet eyes narrowing with amusement. Then, she had extended a single, ash-grey hand with nails so long and sharp, Aerin had no doubt that she could easily cut his throat if she so desired, and purred, “It is time, Prince Aerin, to make your first appearance.” _

_ Aerin swallowed down the memory like it was a medicinal decoction, a bitter taste lingering on the back of his tongue, and held out the Nerada Stone. He studied Vostrasz as he approached, noting that the elf carried only a morning star _ ― _ his weapon of choice _ ― _ which he set against the wall with a heavy clunk. Aerin’s palms began to sweat and he subtly wiped them on his trousers as Baron took the Stone. _

_ “Don’t you need, ah, tools?” he dared to ask. _

_ “No, not for this,” Vostrasz replied, weighing the Stone in his hand. “The magic will do the work,” he said as he gestured for Aerin to remove his shirt, a finely-embroidered tunic of crushed black velvet, handpicked for the occasion. “Although if you would like to see my tools, you are more than welcome to see them used in action. There are some prisoners that crave their attention, and I have such an extensive collection.” _

_ Aerin thought he was going to be sick. He gripped the edge of the altar so hard his knuckles went white and forced himself to nod politely. “I will keep that in mind.” _

_ Baron Vostrasz raised a thick brow. “Squeamish?” _

_ “I’ve never had a taste for violence,” Aerin admitted. Why lie when the truth served him just as well? He stripped himself of his tunic as instructed and folded it neatly in his lap before setting it aside. _

_ Vostrasz hummed, then gave him that smile again. Briefly, Aerin thought it might have been kind if he had not learned long ago to detect the curves of cruelty. Vostrasz indicated for Aerin to lay back atop the altar. “You will develop it, in time,” he said, standing by Aerin’s shoulder as he held the Nerada Stone over the center of his bare chest. “We all did.” _

_ The Stone flared to life, pulsing like a heart as Baron Vostrasz set its jagged edge to the smooth, milky white flesh. Aerin inhaled deeply through his nose, his rising chest forcing the edge to press into his skin and he felt the heat of the Stone, sensed its hunger for his Shadow. Then, before Aerin could think twice, Baron Vostrasz began to  _ push.

_ Aerin ground his teeth, legs spasming although he forced the rest of his body to remain still as the Stone’s edge broke skin and blood, bright and ruby red, began to flow freely, coursing through the dips and valleys of his body, pooling in the divet of his stomach and the cradle of his collarbone.  _

_ Aerin closed his eyes as he tried to steady his breathing, calm his nerves, and bear the pain. He needed something to strengthen his resolve, to remind him why he was here, why any of this was necessary. So he began with the beginning _ ― _ his roots. _

__ Once upon a time,  _ he told himself,  _ in a land shrouded in darkness, there lived a young hero who loved his kingdom very much… 

_ The Shadow within him recoiled at the Stone’s presence, viciously dragging its claws through his innards in a desperate attempt to escape the foreign magic that sought to contain it.  _

Once upon a time, in a land shrouded in darkness… 

_ Beneath the Stone’s magic and Baron’s force, Aerin’s chest began to cave, a cavity forming to hold the Nerada Stone as his body began to scream in agony, a tempered blade being thrust into flame. _

...there lived a young hero who loved his kingdom very much… 

_ But despite everything, Aerin began to scream. _

* * *

Aerin was screaming.

In pain or in fear, Iliana did not know, but nothing she did seemed to be enough to make him stop. He was unconscious, lost to a sleep that she could not wake him from, try as she did. Cold water only seemed to make him burn brighter and his body, which was blushing furiously over veins as black as pitch, rejected her Light like it was a scourge.

The fear Iliana felt now was unlike any she had ever known. Like a mourner, she bowed over him, clasping his hand between hers as she choked on ragged breaths, refusing to cry. On that dusty old farm in Riverbend, Iliana had grown up without religion. But she clung to it now and prayed to the Old Gods, the New Gods, the stars, and all of the constellations her people believed in, as well as the one’s her brother made to protect her. She prayed to everything she knew and everything she didn’t. The spirits of the trees the people of the Dunbar Forest worshipped, the White Whale revered by the fishermen of the Golden Coast, the Great Beetle of the southern settlements.

To all of it, she prayed.

_ Please, let him survive,  _ she begged.  _ Please don’t take him away. _

Iliana did not know if any of these spirits or deities heard her or if she was praying to ghosts and ash, but she clung to her faith, her faith in  _ him,  _ and hoped with everything she had that when the sun rose the next morning, Aerin would rise with it.

* * *

_ Aerin knew what day this was. Try as he might, he could not forget it. He never would. _

_ Aerin stood atop his father’s dais, facing the empty throne, but for the first time in a long while, he stared at the hunk of polished wood, gold filigree, and velvet without even a glimmer of envy or resentment in his heart. For the first time in a long while, he gazed upon his father’s seat of power, and did not covet it for himself. _

_ He could hear the commotion on the other side of the grand double doors that lead from the hall to the terrace. The party had returned from the fiasco at the Temple of Light, and as Aerin expected, it had not gone well. Which meant it was time for him to act. _

_ Aerin turned and lifted one foot, prepared to step off of the dais when the doors swung open, admitting _ ―

_ Aerin’s face slackened, his chest constricting around his heart, his ribs becoming a prison. “Brother?” _

_ He lurched forward, too shocked and _ ― _ and  _ relieved _ to see his brother once again, alive and well, to realize that this was not how the events of this day unfolded. Aerin was about a third of the way down the hall when Baldur drew his sword, eyes that were twin to his blazing bright. Aerin halted in his tracks, alarm shooting through his veins as his brain registered Baldur’s furious expression. _

_ “Fight me,” the Crown Prince ordered. _

_ Aerin scrambled back, retreating toward the dais. “No.” _

_ “Fight me!” Baldur demanded again, stalking down the red velvet strip of carpet, every step laced with power and challenge. “It is not a request. Draw your sword, Aerin, and fight me!” _

_ “No!” Aerin protested, shuffling back as fast as his legs would carry him, heart thundering with the fear he had always carried as a child. He felt like he was twelve years old again, terrorized beneath the swaying branches of a flowering elder tree, his mother’s puzzle cube _ ― _ one of her last gifts to him _ ― _ laying discarded in the dirt somewhere beyond the garden’s edge. Aerin’s foot caught on the edge of the first step of the dais and he tumbled backward, spine cracking against the marble stairs. _

_ But Baldur kept coming, a force of nature in his own right _ ― _ a storm waiting to break, a wave prepared to crash. Aerin would drown in him, would crumble beneath his might, just as he had been born to do. Aerin swallowed his fear, willing his rabbit heart to quell its trembling. If Baldur was going to strike him down, let it be here, in the hall of his ancestors. Let it be here and now, while Aerin’s blood still ran red and his hands were not yet stained of sins he could not forget. _

_ As Baldur approached, the distance between them shrinking, Aerin accepted his death, the sentence of a second son destined to live in the shadows. Aerin was prepared to die, but his body would not let him. _

_ Baldur stood before him _ ― _ prince, tormentor, and brother _ ― _ Aerin’s nightmare and his newest wish _ ― _ and raised his sword, the ornate hilt of embossed gold and ruby glinting like a falling star. The tip gleamed in the sunlight that streamed in through the windows, its wicked edge glinting like the flash of teeth in the darkness, a smile beckoning him closer. Baldur swung his sword down in a glittering arc of gold and steel, and Aerin lifted the Blade of Shadow to meet it. _

_ The impact reverberated through Aerin’s arms like a tinny echo as he gaped at the sword that had suddenly materialized in his hands. The hilt hummed with warm familiarity, like an old friend welcoming him home. _

_ Baldur grinned. “There you are.” _

_ Aerin moved, driven more by an instinct to survive than the will to do so. He shoved outward from his chest, forcing Baldur back, and forced himself to stand, putting his father’s throne at his back as he advanced forward, leaving behind the steps that sought to trip him. _

_ “I don’t want to fight you,” Aerin told his brother, even as the blade sang with the promise of violence and blood. _

_ Baldur shook his head. “But you will. Like a good king must.” _

_ Baldur lunged forward, moving faster than Aerin had ever seen him strike. Aerin’s arms began to move but he knew he had neither the strength nor the power to hold his own against an unexpected attack. _

Move your feet.

_ Aerin did. He sidestepped his brother’s slash, ducking beneath the blade and spinning like some sort of a reveler, a blur of movement engaging in a dance with death. Aerin swung the Blade, treating it like an extension of his arm rather than a separate entity, and aimed to graze his brother’s ribs, but Baldur was ready. He twisted his arm, parrying Aerin’s thrust aside as if he was little more than a pesky fly to be swatted. _

_ Aerin lunged, but Baldur caught his attack. And the next. His brother moved as if he knew every move Aerin was about to make before he made it. It took a few parries and strikes for Aerin to realize that was because, of course, he did. Not only had Baldur been his sparring partner for years _ ― _ albeit unwillingly on Aerin’s part _ ― _ but he was also his brother, who knew him better than most. That may not amount to much, but in this case, it was enough.  _

You treat sword fighting like chess. I treat every battle like I’m fighting for my life.

_ Maybe it didn’t have to be one approach or the other. When you knew your opponent as well as Aerin knew his brother, perhaps it  _ had  _ to be a bit like chess, with the added desperation of fighting for survival. Aerin had to think ahead, had to use every move he made to set up for an attack several steps down the line. _

_ Aerin slipped beneath Baldur’s guard and slammed his foot on his brother’s instep. In retaliation, Baldur damned his name to the seven hells and butted his head forward, bashing his forehead into Aerin’s nose. A painful move with consequences, Aerin noted as blood, hot and metallic dribbled into his mouth and down his throat, but a necessary one. As Aerin staggered back, he went behind Baldur’s back, forcing him to turn around. _

_ One step down. _

_ Baldur swung his sword down, aiming to embed it in the crook between Aerin’s neck and shoulder, but Aerin caught the blade with the obsidian crossguard of his hilt. Aerin’s arms trembled as Baldur bore down on him, his force threatening to send Aerin to his knees.  _

I just use everything I have in order to make sure I don’t get skewered. 

_ Baldur was stronger, but Aerin was more desperate, a feral animal backed into a corner, foaming at the mouth. He spat, blood and saliva coating his brother’s face as he thrust his arms upward, breaking their deadlock. Aerin reared back and planted his foot in Baldur’s chest. He kicked out, sending his brother stumbling back.  _

_ Another step. _

_ This time it was Baldur who lunged, and Aerin who was ready. He twirled his blade, batting his brother’s sword aside as if it were nothing. Aerin went on the offensive, bringing the Blade of Shadow down in wide sweeping arcs, his quick and brutal strikes forcing his brother back and back and back until _ ―

_ Aerin slid his blade beneath his brother’s, metal screeching against onyx, then twisted his wrist, sending Baldur’s sword skittering to the ground as he pushed forward. Baldur’s heel caught on the edge of the first step that led to the dais, his eyes widening as he fell, and Aerin gripped the Blade of Shadow in both hands, hefting it up in the air, its point poised above the Crown Prince’s heart. _

Do it,  _ a sinister voice crooned inside his head, feather-light and almost gentle. He knew that voice, had known it intimately throughout the last decade of his life.  _ End his life. Spill his blood and take your rightful place in the Shadow Court. Become what you were always meant to be―the King of Shadow.

_ Aerin’s fingers tightened around the hilt of the Blade, his knuckles growing white. But he could not force himself to deal the killing blow.  _ No, _ he protested.  _ I don’t want to.

You will.

_ Aerin ground his teeth, lowering his sword to his side. “I won’t.” _

_ “You have to.” _

_ This time, it was not the Dreadlord who spoke. It was Baldur. _

_ Aerin’s throat tightened and the Blade of Shadow wavered in his trembling hands as his brother reached out and tilted the sword up, guiding it with his own hands so that its tip lay against his chest, right over his heart. _

_ “No,” Aerin breathed. “I won’t.” _

_ He tried to pull away but Baldur gripped the sword’s edge, blood leaking from his palms. His hazel eyes were no longer filled with fire and fury, but pity. And sadness. And… forgiveness. “You must.” _

_ Aerin’s voice broke and he shook his head. Tears welled up, blurring his vision before they spilled over, mixing with his blood. He could taste them on his tongue. Salt and copper. The dregs of life. “You are my brother.” _

_ “And I am your past,” Baldur replied softly, gently. “You cannot undo what you’ve done. You can only accept it and move on.” The tip of the Blade tore through his tunic, pierced flesh. Pain flickered across the Crown Prince’s face as he repeated, “You must.” _

_ “I would rather die.” _

_ “Death would be too easy. You know this.” Those were their father’s words, and they rang as true now as they did the day the King had given them. “There are more trials to come. If our kingdom is to survive this war, you have to be strong. You cannot face an army of legend if you cannot even face yourself.” _

_ “You are my brother,” Aerin repeated helplessly and Baldur smiled sadly. His expression, so sincere, made Aerin’s heart break. _

_ “I should have been a better one,” Baldur whispered. _

_ Aerin sobbed. “I’m sorry.” _

_ Baldur nodded in understanding. There was no malice, no sarcasm, no hatred in his voice as he said, “I know.” _

_ Aerin’s chest heaved with the weight of his anguish as he let his brother’s words wash over him, let them stain him, let them wipe him clean. Aerin whispered one last broken apology, and then he pushed the blade home. _

* * *

Iliana was losing him. 

At some point, Aerin had stopped screaming, his hoarse voice quieting to incoherent pleas and apologies. To whom he was begging forgiveness, Iliana did not know, but she desperately wished they granted it.

Aerin’s fever reached a breaking point. His skin, which had gone from deathly pale to the color of a storm cloud, was too hot to touch. 

_ Purification is dangerous. The Shadow will fight back and it will try to punish you for betraying it. The process will be as strenuous on the body as it will be on the mind and there is no guarantee you will survive. _

This was it. The Shadow was punishing Aerin for trying to rid himself of it. It was a last-ditch effort. If the magic was going to go, it was going to use everything it had to make sure Aerin went with it.

Aerin had gone somewhere Iliana could not follow. But Iliana hoped he knew that she was there, waiting for when he came back.

He had to.

* * *

_ Aerin stood in a throne room once again, but this time, it was not his father’s. Nor was it the Dreadlord’s. It was… his. _

_ He stood in a throne room of gold-veined marble and obsidian. At his back towered a throne of black smoky glass, inlaid with cushions of dark red velvet. Aerin’s stomach twisted as he realized it looked a lot like blood. Through the massive windows that lined the hall, Aerin could see that the sky looked like one massive bruise, shrouded in purplish clouds and smoke. He was in the Shadow Realm… but not. The earth that lay beneath the heavens was not the volcanic wasteland Aerin had come to know during his time in the Dreadlord’s service. No, through the windows, Aerin saw Whitetower. His city. His home. _

_ “How? How is this possible?” he mused in awe, dumbfounded. It was as if the Realm of Shadow and the Realm of Light had… merged.  _

_ “Still marveling, are you?” questioned a voice of velvet and silk. There was a low chuckle that made warmth pool low in his stomach. “Your humility is endearing. It’s all yours. As am I.” _

_ Aerin turned, his foolish heart skipping in his chest. “Iliana.” _

_ She stood before him, clad in a form-fitting dress that was constructed of fabric so dark, it seemed to swallow the light. Although perhaps “dress” was not the right word. It was more like armor. The exterior of her outfit was covered in shiny pieces of dark metal that interlocked like the scales of a snake. The material covered her arms and shoulders, creeping all the way up the sides of her neck. Longer pieces of black metal swept up her throat like raven’s feathers although her neckline plunged low,  _ enticingly low.

_ Iliana’s skin was ashen, the same sickly color as his, but somehow, she managed to make it look enchanting. Her hair, long and lustrous, was as black as night and her lips were as red as blood. Her eyes were a ringlet of hard emerald, surrounded by an ore of onyx. She was, as always, utterly bewitching. _

And wrong, _ his subconscious whispered warily _ ―his  _ subconscious. Not the Shadow’s.  _ This is wrong.

_ But if it was wrong, then why did it feel so right? _

_ “Cat got your tongue?” Iliana purred as she strode toward him, her fingertips trailing over the arm of his dark throne. Aerin felt the ghost of sensation whisper over his chest, as if Iliana had touched him instead of the dark glass, and shivered in delight. As her fingertips left the glass, Aerin’s gaze drifted to the right, where another throne sat, twin to his. A thrill went through him. He had a feeling he knew exactly who that one belonged to, who ruled beside him. _

_ “You look lovely,” Aerin told her as she glided closer. “An absolute vision.” _

_ She smiled coyly, like a viper waiting to strike.  _ Dangerous creature…  _ Iliana looped her arms around his neck, their chests pressed flush together as she leaned into him. Her warmth was intoxicating, finer than even the most expensive wine. She trailed one slender finger along the edge of his jaw, then under his chin, tilting his face toward hers. “As do you,” she said lowly, her breath ghosting over his lips. “My king.” _

_ Iliana kissed him, one hand sliding into his hair as the other fell to his chest, her palm fitting over the Nerada Stone. Aerin melted against her, his hands curling against her spine and pressing her closer,  _ closer.  _ Iliana went wherever he led her, their legs stumbling around until the back of Aerin’s knees struck his throne.  _

_ Aerin sat, pulling Iliana into his lap and tangling his fingers in her hair as he pressed his mouth to her neck, delighting in the small sounds that fell from her lips. He slid his hands up her thighs, bunching her dress around her hips, smooth skin gliding beneath his palms. His heart raced, thrilled that he was here with her and she with him, and nothing awful existed beyond those double doors, nothing but the kingdom he loved and the lands he ruled. _

_ It was divine, losing himself in her at the center of everything he had wanted, everything he had earned. The Shadow Court had won, Aerin was the King of Shadow, and Iliana was what he had always wanted her to be: his. _

_ For once, everything was perfect. _

_ Except… it wasn’t. There was something nagging at the corner of his mind, a section of his heart that felt tight with anxiety, accompanied by a sense that something was not right here. His stomach twisted and a string of warning bells pealed in his mind, all of them chiming,  _ Wrong. This is wrong.

_ Aerin pulled away, even as he felt something inside him tear in two. His breathing was harsh, unraveled, as he whispered. “This is wrong.” _

_ “What do you mean?” Iliana drew back, her eyes clouded with undisguised lust and confusion. “Isn’t this what you want?” She shifted herself to the side, hand sliding to the back of his neck to guide his attention to the windows.  _

_ “Morella,” she whispered. Then she touched his crown and Aerin suddenly felt its weight, heavy upon his neck, as she said, “Control.” Her hands cupped both of his and dark flames swirled in his palms. “Power.” _

_ The Shadow in his hands disappeared like smoke in the wind as she lifted one of them and held it to her cheek. Iliana kissed the inside of his wrist, then his palm, and looked at him demurely. “Me.” _

Yes,  _ Aerin thought.  _ But not like this.

_ Aerin swiped his thumb over her bottom lip and she chased it, kissing his fingertips as that sense of wrongness grew even stronger, as if now that Aerin had looked it in the eyes, it would not go away. _

_ Aerin leaned back, the coolness of his glass throne permeating through his black silk tunic. He threaded the fingers of one hand through Iliana’s hair as the other rested low on her spine and she smiled, leaning in to kiss his neck. But before she could, Aerin asked, “How fare your friends?” _

_ Iliana froze, her body tensing beneath his hands. She pulled back, her face cruelly dismissive. “They are no friends of mine. They sit in the dungeons, far from my mind.” Her fingers smoothed themselves along his collar. “Unlike you.” _

Iliana would never say that.

_ Aerin let her hands roam, even as her touch made his skin crawl. He tilted his head, dragging the back of his hand against her cheek. It was soft, but wrongly so. Everything about her was too soft. There were no callouses on her fingers and palms, no scars on the backs of her crafty hands, and her slender arms were not corded with the hard-earned muscles that came with years of fighting. These could not wield a sword, draw back a bowstring, or punch dents in armor. _

_ She kissed the spot below his ear, the underside of his jaw, and Aerin’s fingers gripped the arms of his throne, not in restraint but in revulsion. She did not even wear his signet ring. _

_ “And how is your brother?” Aerin asked through clenched teeth. _

_ “Gone with the rest of them,” she murmured, lips ghosting over his throat. Aerin wanted to be sick. He had heard everything he needed to know. _

_ Unable to stand another moment of this, Aerin seized her by the waist and lifted her out of his lap, gently setting her aside as he got to his feet. His legs felt unsteady beneath him and Aerin could have sworn the entire earth shuddered as he stepped away from his throne. “You’re not real,” he said, gazing around the room, the merging of two realms. “None of this is.”  _

_ Aerin strode down the dais toward the double doors at the end of the hall. He did not know where he was going or if he even could escape this nightmare, but he needed to get out of here, away from this callous reflection of his old desires, the hollow imitations of the things he loved. _

_ There was the harsh sound of rapid footsteps, the click of heels, and then  _ she  _ was standing before him, face gruesomely furious in a way that Iliana’s had never been, even at her most vengeful and terrifying moments. “You would turn your back on this?” she demanded, voice shrill. “On me?” _

_ “This was a fantasy. A foolish dream I’ve left behind,” Aerin said coolly, waving his hand around. As he spoke, fissures splintered through the marble and hunks of obsidian broke free of the pillars, crashing to the ground. “And you…” he continued, his voice full of pity but not despair. “You aren’t her. You never could be.” _

_ Her face contorted, green eyes burning unnaturally as her hands curled into fists and the Shadow roiled off of her in waves. For a moment, Aerin thought she might scream or attack, but when she opened her mouth, no sound came out. A benign wind swept through the throne room, carrying the powder of crushed stone. It stirred Aerin’s sleek clothes, caressed his cheek almost tenderly, and when it reached the woman that was supposed to be Iliana, she disappeared with it, nothing but dust. _

_ Aerin stared at the place she once stood and did not mourn her, nor did he mourn everything that could have been. Instead, Aerin lifted his head and continued on. He shoved open the heavy double doors that led out of the throne room and emerged into the world of light and color beyond. _

* * *

When Aerin woke, the first rays of dawn had just brushed the sky. The stars that had kept them company through the crevices in the cave had disappeared into the hazy blue dusk. The fire had dwindled to ashes and embers, smoke curling into the air like phantom signals. 

Instantly, Aerin was aware of the gaping presence at the center of his soul, the place the Shadow had once occupied. But he did not mourn its absence. Did not even wish for the dregs. When he inhaled, he did so freely, without any strain on his lungs. His skin felt the cool kiss of the morning’s chill and the sickly pallor had given way to a soft summer glow, the way his skin should have looked all along after long days of traveling beneath the sun. His veins were a waxy blue, a herald of good health. He no longer looked like a dark prince, a servant of Shadow. He was just another man among the living. Ordinary perhaps, but alive.

And amidst all of this, in the shadows and the dappled light, was Iliana―the  _ real _ Iliana―bowed over him like a priestess lost in prayer, one of his hands trapped tightly between hers.

Aerin reached out, brushing his knuckles over the back of her cheek. He was exhausted but there was strength in the movement. His voice was a low rumble. “Iliana.”

Her eyes fluttered open, pupils dilating in shock, disbelief, joy, and about a million other things Aerin could not detect in time or put a name to. Iliana breathed his name and on her lips, it sounded like a declaration. Of what, he did not quite know, but it stirred his heart all the same. The hand that covered his was scarred and calloused―a fighter’s hands. A survivor’s.

“You’re okay,” Iliana whispered, blinking as if she could not quite believe the sight before her bloodshot eyes.

“I am,” Aerin said in affirmation, and the smile she gave him was so brilliant, Aerin knew he would have gone through it all over again, just to see it one more time.

“You’re alive,” she stated as he slowly pushed himself up into a seated position.

“I am.” Aerin grinned, although his expression fell as he held up his hands. “I have no magic. No Shadow.”

No power.

“I don’t care,” Iliana whispered as the tears she had been holding back for so long finally spilled over her cheeks. And then, before Aerin could say anything else, she rushed into his arms.


	26. Wildfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A single spark is all it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: nsfw

Despite all of the trials Aerin had faced in that cave, a part of him was reluctant to leave.

In a sense, leaving the cave felt like finally leaving his old life behind―not forgotten, just… buried. His past would always serve as a reminder of what happened when his ambition went unchecked, when he lost track of the things that truly mattered. But it could not haunt him. Not anymore. For that, Aerin was glad to leave.

But leaving also meant returning to reality. When they returned to the Aerie, they would resume their search for the Old Gods and they would have to find a way to prepare for the day the Empire of Ash made to move upon their realm. And all of this, Aerin would have to do as a man. Not the Prince of Shadow. Perhaps not even as a prince. It would just be him, Aerin Valleros, in all of his humbling mundanity.

Although, of course, he had to remind himself that it was in fact  _ not  _ “just him.”

As they wound through the rainforest on their way back to the Aerie, Aerin glanced over at Iliana, who walked with a renewed sense of purpose, her shoulders straight and eyes determined. It was as if having his well being established once more had strengthened her resolve to see the rest of this journey through. He could not help but draw off of her strength and nurse it for himself.

It was an immense comfort to know that whatever came next, he would not have to face it alone. 

By the time they reached the base of the massive tree that housed the Aerie, the sky had gone purplish with twilight and the forest floor was full of shifting shadows and skittering creatures. Aerin did not question the quickened pace of Iliana’s steps as the wooden lift that led to the treetop came into view. He did not want to linger in the humid rainforest, with all of the strange creatures they heard but could not see, any longer than they had to. 

As they approached, Aerin saw the winged woman that was tasked with guarding the lift straighten, coming to full attention. She was dressed in draping green fabrics and the silver armor that seemed to be the uniform of the Aerie’s garrison. 

Aerin wondered if the warriors of the Avian Clans that occupied the other trees had different uniforms or if they all flew under one banner. He had so many questions about the Avian Kingdom, but he had a feeling he would not get the chance to ask even half of them. They had other things to worry about first.

Behind that strange mask of steel, the woman’s eyes were only pinpricks of reflected moonlight as she assessed them, nodded in recognition and acknowledgment, then stepped aside, opening the mid-waist gate that led to the interior of the lift. Aerin muttered a grateful but tired thanks as he followed Iliana inside. 

The moment the gate swung shut behind them, the floor shuddered and there was a metallic groan, then the lift began to rise, climbing through the branches of the great tree. Instinctively, Aerin’s stomach clenched as he looked between the wooden slats of the lift walls, the winged guard shrinking to a small dot on the forest floor. 

This was not the first time he had ridden in the lift―he had done so twice yesterday morning: once to reach the garrison’s supply cache with Killian and a second time when he and Iliana embarked on their search for the rift. But the novelty of it all still had yet to fade. It was ingenious, to use counterbalances to facilitate transportation. Aerin wondered if it would be possible to implement a lift like this―albeit a smaller one―in the Whitetower palace. It would certainly make the trek from the base to the top of one of the spires much easier.

When Aerin looked over to see how Iliana was faring in this bizarre contraption, he saw that she had leaned against the wooden walls, folded her arms across her chest, tilted her head back, and closed her eyes. Aerin frowned, her exhaustion reminding him of his own, and felt a twinge of guilt. He supposed neither of them got much rest last night, with him fighting off the Shadow and Iliana stoutly watching over him. They needed to rest. Especially if they were going to find the Caves tomorrow―they could not afford to waste any more time. 

Aerin’s stomach growled indignantly and he sighed. They would rest, but first, maybe they should eat.

Before long, they broke through the canopy, rising above the dense coverage of the smaller trees and revealing an obstructed view of the rest of Rysoth and the sparkling night sky. Aerin could not help but gaze wistfully at the sight. He wished, not for the first time, that they had time to simply enjoy being in this place of untamed beauty and legend without the weight of an inevitable war weighing down upon their shoulders.

“They’re out there,” Iliana murmured, her voice soft and worn. Her eyes were still closed, shoulders jostling slightly with the lift’s movement. “I can feel it.”

Aerin’s frown deepened. He wasn’t sure if it was confidence that made her say that, or something else.

Iliana cracked an eye open, her brows creasing as she saw his expression. Aerin supposed that he must have looked even more worried than he felt because she asked, “What’s wrong?”

Aerin’s lips twisted wryly.  _ What  _ isn’t _ wrong? _ he wanted to reply, although as he glanced between them, he knew the answer.  _ This. _

Aerin shrugged. “Everything’s going to change, isn’t it?” he mused, crossing the lift to lean against the wall beside her. “If we find the Old Gods― _ when, _ ” he amended when Iliana opened her mouth to negate him. “When we find the Old Gods… well, no one alive has ever seen them. Gods have never walked the earth in the presence of our kind. If all of the stories are true, then the power they have is unlike any we have ever seen before.” 

Aerin shook his head, brows knitting together helplessly as he tried to find the right words to convey his thoughts―the point in all of his musings. He didn’t know where he was going with this, but when he glanced over at Iliana, he found that she did not seem to mind his anxious ramblings in the slightest. “How can the world  _ not  _ change in the presence of something like that?”

Iliana pursed her lips, expression thoughtful as her eyes roamed around, studying the darkening horizon. “Well…” she said after a few moments, chewing her bottom lip. “Maybe the world should change.” She glanced sidelong at him and her expression softened by a fraction. “You and I both know it needs to.”

She had a point there. Aerin wondered if Iliana had ever been wrong about anything in her life.

“Let’s just hope that this will be a good change,” Iliana mumbled, her arms tightening around her ribcage as she leaned into him, her temple knocking against his. They were so exhausted, entire bags of bones that were just hauling themselves from one challenge to the next, and Aerin knew this did not bode well considering that the worst of their troubles had yet to come.

When the lift finally came to a halt and they stepped onto the sturdy catwalk that lined the top of a massive branch, Aerin felt as if he could breathe again. Up here in the Aerie, the air was pleasantly cool, if not a little  _ too  _ cool―a drastic difference from the sopping heat of the forest floor. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Iliana said conversationally as they wound their way toward the barracks. “Next time we have a few moments to spare, we should continue your lessons. Get a shield into your hand. After all, a good defense is just as important as a good offense. And more than that,” she added a bit bashfully. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

A foolish smile broke out on Aerin’s lips before he could rein it in, touched by her concern. Although there was an undercurrent of reason in her words Aerin knew he should heed. He was vulnerable, more so than he had ever been before, now that he no longer had the Shadow to fall back on in difficult situations.

Iliana clucked her tongue, shaking her head as she elbowed him in the side. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself. You won’t be so happy with me when I get Imtura to teach you Kaytar.”

Aerin winced. He’d read about the orcish fighting style. It was brutal and efficient. “You wouldn’t. Imtura would snap me in half.”

“I would and I will,” she replied nonchalantly, tilting her head as she gazed around the Aerie. “I can’t tell you how many times Kaytar has gotten me out of―”

Iliana suddenly stopped in her tracks, eyes widening. A moment later, Aerin saw why.

“Mal!” Iliana exclaimed as the Whitetower Reaper, alive and well, emerged from the front doors of a long wooden structure―the mess hall, Aerin recalled from their brief tour of the Aerie with Killian―and sauntered out onto the catwalk as he stretched his arms overhead.

At the sound of her voice, Mal turned, hands dropping to his sides. Instantly, his face lit up as Iliana bounded toward him. “Kit! Princeling!”

Mal caught Iliana in his arms, stumbling back a few steps and turning in a wobbly spin to account for her momentum. It was an amusing sight, to see Iliana spring into Mal’s arms with the gleeful abandon of a child, especially since she was at least a few inches taller than him. For a moment, Aerin wondered if that’s how he looked next to Iliana. He was taller than Mal and had never really noticed a big difference between him and Iliana, but… Aerin shrugged the thought away, unbothered. If Iliana was taller than he was, then so be it. She was an elf after all.

When Mal set her down, Iliana seized his forearms, her gaze raking over his person in a clear attempt to identify anything that might indicate he was not in good health. “You’re awake!” she stated, setting her hands atop his shoulders. “And walking around.”

“That dwarf knows her stuff,” Mal replied, playfully swatting her hands away and ruffling her hair. “I heard you two went on a little solo mission while I was out,” he said as he turned, narrowed gaze falling on Aerin. He tilted his head, his eyes scanning Aerin up and down as he approached. “Are you… you?”

It wasn’t very difficult to glean his meaning. Aerin nodded. “I am.”

There was a beat of silence, then Mal grinned, reaching around to clasp Aerin’s forearm. “Glad to hear it.”

Aerin’s lips parted, taken aback by the warmth in Mal’s voice, even after their reconciliation. Then he smiled softly and dipped his chin, fingers tightening around Mal’s arm. “As am I. I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better. You look well.”

Mal’s smile broadened even more, although now there was a cocky, teasing lilt to his motions. “And you two look terrible,” he said gleefully, grabbing their shoulders and steering toward the doors from which he emerged. “You should eat. The others will want to know you’re back.”

As Mal ushered them into the building, Aerin’s senses were immediately assaulted by a strong aroma his ravenous stomach instantly identified as food. The warmth of the mess hall wrapped around Aerin like a cocoon and all of his thoughts were drowned out by the din of conversation. 

Several long tables spanned the length of the hall, populated with more winged men and women. Aerin noted that some were dressed in that strange armor and others were dressed as civilians. He was vaguely reminded of the way it felt to walk into the dining hall of the Khagan’s fortress, surrounded by the wooly men, although this was nothing like that. Then, they had been escorted by guards into a den of wolves, prepared to have an audience that was supposed to determine whether they lived or died. Here, the atmosphere felt… welcoming. Friendly.

“Look who I found!” Mal crowed as he steered Aerin and Iliana toward a table that was occupied by the rest of their friends, Morrigan, Killian, and a few other members of the garrison. In between plates of steaming food, Borte’s map of the Cave was laid out, weighed down by unused pieces of silverware and one of Threep’s paws.

At Mal’s announcement, their friends looked up, varying degrees of surprise flickering across their faces, but Aerin noted that all of their expressions held some sort of warmth. His chest tightened almost painfully. Had he ever been welcomed like this before? He knew the answer was no.

“You’re back!” Nia sprang to her feet, nearly upsetting a goblet of water as she pulled Iliana into a tight hug, laughing gleefully. 

“Did it work?” Imtura questioned, rousing herself out of surprise first. 

Nia pulled away from Iliana and tilted her head, a soft smile blooming on her lips as she looked Aerin up and down. It was almost a relief to find a smile on her face as opposed to the distress she bore last time he saw her. She reached out, gently squeezing his arm, and immediately, Aerin knew she had already sensed the change in him. “It worked.”

Threep’s whiskers twitched as he sniffed the air. “No ash,” he stated, wrinkling his nose. “Just sweat.”

“How did it happen?” Tyril asked, glancing between the two of them as he tapped a stick of charcoal against the table. As he did, Aerin noticed that the map was detailed in small but neat inscriptions. Notes. “Borte mentioned Light-infused water.”

Iliana shook her head. “Moonblooms.”

“Ah, of course,” Threep said, as if this information was unsurprising, his tail flicking lazily across the map of the Cave. “If anyone had thought to ask me, I could have told you that.” 

Tyril frowned, swatting Threep’s tail aside, and in Aerin’ periphery vision, he saw Iliana roll her eyes as if to say,  _ Sure. _

“Well, this is wonderful news,” Morrigan stated, looking around the table. She placed her hands on the surface as if to push herself to a stand. “I should probably get Borte―”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary,” Iliana chimed in, the slightest of edges hidden in her voice, even as she smiled politely. 

Morrigan’s brows raised, then lowered, her eyes sparkling in understanding. She sat back, a wry twist to her lips. “What did that old bat do this time?”

Iliana opened her mouth, no doubt to release a slew of unkind things, but Aerin beat her to it. “Nothing worth discussing now.”

For a moment, Aerin thought Iliana might bring it up anyway, but instead she just sighed and nodded as she plucked some sort of cubed fruit off of Tyril’s plate, too tired to pursue the matter. Noting her hunger, Killian stood, waving his hand toward the table. “Sit. You two should eat. I’ll get some drinks to celebrate your return. A tankard of our best ale.”

At the word  _ celebrate _ , Aerin felt his bones groan wearily as Imtura sat up straighter, her interest clearly piqued. “Ale?”

Morrigan sniffed distastefully. “Forget the ale. Get the wine.”

“I vote you get both,” Imtura chimed in, pounding her palm against the wooden table, rattling the plates as she glanced. “What do you say?” she asked, waving her hand toward the map. “A round of drinks before we head into this lair of death tomorrow? We’ve been studying this damned thing for hours.”

Beside him, Iliana hesitated for a moment, exhaustion practically rolling off of her in waves. But then she shrugged and plopped down beside Nia, bracing her forearms on the table. “Hells. Why not? Who knows when we’ll be able to do this next.”

“Atta girl,” Imtura grinned, slapping Iliana on the back as she turned her golden gaze upon Aerin. “What about you, palace rat? Want to celebrate your first night in the light?”

_ First night in the light,  _ Aerin echoed, turning the words over in his mind and deciding that he quite liked the sound of them. Aerin was bone-tired, both from his trek through the jungle and the purification process. But as he glanced around the table, taking in the expectant faces of his companions―his  _ friends _ ―he realized that he would rather bear the exhaustion than miss out on this time with them.

He grinned. “I think I can manage a few drinks.”

* * *

Aerin stared at the ceiling of his room, his mind still buzzing from the ale and wine.

It had been at least an hour since he retired to his room, leaving the others to continue their revelry in the dining hall amongst the other denizens of the Avian Kingdom. When he had left, he had claimed it was exhaustion that lured him to bed, which had been true at the time. But the moment Aerin had flopped onto the mattress, fresh from the barracks washroom and all traces of dirt and grime scrubbed from his skin, he felt wide awake.

His thoughts zipped around his head, bare wisps of ideas and words that were too intangible to pursue and explore, but insistent nonetheless. At one point, he began to consider unpeeling himself from the mattress and returning to the dining hall in case the others were still there, enjoying what was perhaps the last night of life as they knew it. 

Aerin had gotten as far as slinging his legs over the side of the bed when a sudden knock on the door froze him in place. His heart skipped a beat, a lost hound yearning for its owner.

“Aerin? Are you awake?”

Aerin felt his chest deflate a bit. It was not Iliana as he had anticipated― _ hoped _ ―but rather it was Nia.

He sat up, brow furrowing. “I’m awake.”

Nia opened the door, tentatively poking her head in, eyes already wide with an apology. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you―”

Aerin shook his head, waving his hand. “You didn’t. I was just…” He shook his head again. He was staring at a wall, that’s what he was doing. “Thinking. You can come in.”

Nia glanced down the hall, then slipped into his room, leaving the door ajar as she perched on the edge of the dresser that was pressed against the wall, stocked with Aerin’s few belongings and the spare linens he had been provided to sleep in.

“I just wanted to check in on you,” Nia explained, her hands folded in her lap. “To see how you were doing after everything. You look well.”

Aerin smiled slightly. “I feel well.”

He could proudly say that was the truth.

“Good,” Nia said brightly, her shoulders sagging in relief as she admitted, “I am  _ so _ glad I don’t have to kill you.”

Aerin choked on a laugh. He was not expecting that. “Yeah,” he grinned. “Me too.”

A short silence lapsed between them and Aerin found himself wondering if that was all Nia had to say when she cleared her throat, hesitation lining her brow as she spoke. “Actually, I also wanted to ask… if you wanted me to teach you how to use the Light.”

Aerin’s lips parted. “Use the Light?”

He’d never considered that, had not even considered it to be in the realm of possibility although he did not know why. Using the Shadow did not require the user to have an innate affinity for magic, not like the Light did, but Aerin had never even been tested by the Whitetower priests. Growing up in the palace, he’d had no need for such a thing. But now… 

“Do you think it would work?” he asked Nia, feeling something rise in his throat. It felt a lot like hope, although he recognized the undercurrent of dread.

She shrugged. “I can’t promise anything but I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try. I taught Iliana and I’ve been told I’m a pretty great teacher,” she said with a comforting smile. “It could be useful in the future. But it’s your choice.”

Nia had a point. Aerin had been so worried that without the Shadow, he would be essentially useless, a weak link. Imtura and Mal were not magic users, but they were formidable on their own. Imtura had brute strength and was a force to be reckoned with in battle. And although Aerin once would have hated to admit it, Mal was as clever as he was stealthy, and he was exceptionally skilled with his blades. Aerin was an amateur swordsman at best, but perhaps with the Light… 

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “Let’s try it.”

“Are you sure?” Nia asked, slipping off the edge of the dresser. “I want to be sure you know the cost.”

Aerin’s stomach twisted. He knew the cost―a few seconds of his life for every bit of Light he used. Siphoning his life away, that was nothing new.  _ It’s your choice,  _ Nia had said. But if it was a choice between using magic and being useless… well, it did not feel like much of a choice at all. 

Aerin nodded again. “I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Nia replied, crossing the room as she unfastened the clasp of her necklace. Aerin shifted over on the bed, crossing his legs atop the mattress and making space for her to sit in front of him. “Let’s see if we can make this work.”

She sat before him, carefully plucking the dazzling gemstone from the center of her necklace and setting it in Aerin’s outstretched hands. Aerin frowned down at the stone, weighing it in his palm. “Is this magical?”

“Not quite.” Nia shook her head and waved her hand in a stirring motion as she tried to explain it. “It should make it easier for you to conjure an Orb of Light. Think of it as… as a―”

“An amplifier?” Aerin proposed and Nia grinned.

“Yes, exactly that,” she said brightly, shifting her legs beneath her to get more comfortable. “May I touch your hands?”

Aerin held them up in offering and Nia cupped her hands around his. Her palms were soft and warm, not battle-worn and scarred like everyone else’s, although Aerin knew well that this was not reflective at all of the priestess’ strength. Of everyone in their party, Nia was one of the more frightening members―unintentionally, of course. To reclaim control from the Dreadlord himself… Aerin could not help but be both a little awed and afraid by Nia. It was healthy fear, he rationalized. 

“Before you can conjure an Orb, you have to prepare yourself mentally,” Nia told him, her words concise and clear, as if she had practiced them many times. It occurred to Aerin then that she probably had. As a fully fledged priestess, one of Nia’s jobs would have been training the new acolytes. He wondered if part of her missed the Temple or if she regretted leaving. He knew without a doubt that she would have been a good teacher.

“I usually try to think of someplace calming and comfortable,” Nia continued, closing her eyes. “Like the fountain garden outside the Temple of Light. My cottage in the Temple District.”

As she spoke, Aerin felt Nia’s hands warm against his, glowing with a silvery light. He tilted his head curious. “What did Iliana think of?”

Aerin knew that Nia had been the one to teach her how to use the Light. Aerin imagined they probably went through these exact steps together. Nia cracked open an eye, giving him a look of mock disapproval as if to say,  _ This is supposed to be about you. _ But there was a knowing curve to her lips as she obliged him anyway. “She thought of her home in Riverbend with Kade. A rented room above the bakery. The scent of fresh bread baking in the morning.”

Aerin could picture it clearly in his mind, a sense of peace settling over him. For a moment, he could imagine visiting this small town, of seeing the place Iliana and Kade had grown up, the place that had raised them. When all of this was over, Aerin wondered if one day, Iliana would show him around.

Aerin shook his head, rifling through his own memories for some place peaceful. It was not very hard―he had always been drawn to the quiet places. “Okay, I have one.”

“Tell me about it,” Nia prompted softly.

Aerin closed his eyes, crafting the room in his mind as he spoke. “It was my favorite reading space in the palace. A spare bedroom in the Eastern Wing. A stained glass window was set into the wall―that was where I sat atop a set of red velvet cushions.”

Aerin smiled slightly to himself, the tension in his shoulders dissipating as the memories came to life. “Sometimes, if I stayed too late, I could see the sunrise from that perch, but the best time to be there was just a little past noon, when the light hit the window panes just right… The room looked like a kaleidoscope, triangles of red, blue, and green thrown all over the place.”

“Why did you like this place?” Nia asked.

“I… The Eastern Wing is one of the oldest parts of the palace,” Aerin answered, smoothly recalling the facts he had grown up with. “It’s the only place that was left unchanged when the palace was renovated over seventy years ago. The king at the time―my grandfather―left it in its original state to commemorate the rulers that came before him. That’s why you won’t find stained glass windows in any other wing.”

“Being there,” he continued softly, brow creasing slightly as he tried to convey his thoughts. “It helped me feel… connected. To our past. To the Valleros rulers that came centuries before us. The ones that were good and just. Father always told me to be proud of our legacy, but it was only when I was in that wing, in that room, surrounded by the memory of rulers that have long since passed, that I felt any semblance of pride for our family.”

“Pride,” Nia echoed. “Connection. Comfort. Good―hold onto those feelings. Let them ground you, tether you to the world around you. Do you feel it? The energy?”

Aerin pursed his lips, eyes squeezing tighter in concentration as he tried to find what Nia was talking about. A tether? Energy? Aerin only felt the warmth of Nia’s palms and the cold gemstone in his hands. “No.”

Aerin suddenly felt the weight of Nia’s stare and opened his eyes to find that she was gazing at him, her expression thoughtful. Aerin frowned. “Did I… do it wrong?”

“No!” Nia quickly shook her head. “Of course not. You did wonderfully.”

“But it didn’t work.”

“No,” Nia affirmed, her delicate fingers flexing against his. “But perhaps another approach might.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Aerin did the same. “There. Do you feel that?”

“Yes.” Aerin felt a pleasant sensation, a cross between a gentle warmth and a cool breeze. Nia’s Light. It was seeping beneath his skin. He’d felt a similar sensation when Iliana had mended his broken nose and healed the large scab on the side of his face.

“Excellent,” Nia replied, her voice kind and encouraging. “That’s my magic. Try to take hold of it and guide it into the stone.”

Aerin could feel the strands of Nia’s magic flooding into his veins and tried to wrangle it, coax it, guide it into the stone as she asked, but nothing happened. He envisioned a pair of hands, imagined them tangling their fingers in her golden threads and directing the magic into the stone. Again, nothing. Aerin tried and tried and tried again, but he was met with the same result every time. Nothing.

Eventually, Nia gently squeezed his wrists. “Aerin…”

Aerin’s eyes fluttered open and a gasp burst through his lips, lungs burning. He had not even realized he was holding his breath. He shook his head, swallowing hard. “I don’t have it. Magic.”

Nia’s Light faded away and she let her hands fall back into her own lap. She shook her head sympathetically. “No.”

Aerin’s shoulders slumped at her confirmation, although he found that he was not nearly as disappointed as he thought he ought to be. Aerin handed back the gemstone and Nia slotted it back into its spot on her necklace before refastening it around her neck.

Then, she reached out, gently laying her hand atop his shoulder. “Are you… upset?”

Was he? Aerin thought about it for a few moments, then slowly shook his head. “No,” he answered, surprised to find that that was the honest truth. “I think I’m… relieved.”

Nia’s brows rose. “Relieved?”

“I…” Aerin glanced away, his cheeks flushing with shame. How to explain this? “I was not exactly eager to trade seconds of my life away to use the Light,” he confessed, hanging his head forward. “I know you said it was my choice to use the Light, to make that sacrifice, but… I guess if I don’t have any magical affinity, then I don’t ever have to make that choice.”

“You don’t have to give up any of your life force and you don’t have to feel the shame of choosing  _ not _ to give away your life,” Nia stated, her tone conveying far more understanding than Aerin would have expected from a devout follower of the Light. Aerin could not forget that her position had once depended on that sacrifice.

“Yes,” Aerin nodded. “Is that wrong?”

Nia’s brows furrowed. “To want to live? Not at all.” She shook her head. “It isn’t an easy choice to make, Aerin. To choose to give away precious moments of your life. I understand that now better than I once did. I was raised to believe that this sacrifice was noble, that there was no greater purpose than choosing to give up your life to help others. But… I will admit, my stance has changed in the last year.”

Aerin’s brows lifted. “It has?”

Nia gave him a wry smile. “Yes. Making that sacrifice is not as easy as it once was.”

Aerin tilted his head, perplexed. “But you still do it.”

“I do,” Nia affirmed, lacing her hands together. “When I think it is worth it. If using the Light means helping my friends, then of course I will do it. That is what guides me now. I make the sacrifice because I want to, because I think the price is worth paying. Not because it is my purpose. We…” She pursed her lips together, tilting her head from side to side as she tried to find her phrasing. “We are not meant for one purpose alone. We’re worth more than that. Our lives are worth more than that.”

She reached out, squeezing Aerin’s hand comfortingly. “There is no shame in not giving your life away for the Light. There will always be something else you can do instead.”

Aerin frowned. “Is there? I’m practically useless. No magic, no power.”

Nia’s eyes narrowed disapprovingly. “You don’t need magic to be useful, Aerin. You already are. Without the Shadow. Without the Light.”

Aerin scoffed, shaking his head. “How?”

“You’re a strategist, a quick thinker, and a diplomat. Do you know how many situations you’ve gotten us out of?”

“Just as many as I have gotten you into,” he muttered, his gaze falling into his lap as he thought of the Khagan, who had imprisoned them because of who he was. There were also the city guards that had chased them out of water because he had been recognized in a skirmish he never should have involved himself in. And finally, there were Ristridin and his men, who had followed them all the way to the poison fields to bring him back. Although he was not sure if he had caused more trouble to his friends for that, or the Captain of the Royal Guard. Either way, what had happened was his fault.

“That still counts for something,” Nia insisted earnestly. “We never would have gotten this far if it wasn’t for you.” She tilted her head. “Do Mal and Imtura have magic?”

Aerin pursed his lips. He actually had never asked, had never seen any evidence of it, but perhaps―

“They don’t,” Nia answered for him, as if she could sense his questions. “Are they useless?”

Aerin quickly shook his head. “Of course not.”

“Of course not,” Nia echoed. “They aren’t useless and neither are you, even if you feel like you are. You just have to trust that you will find your way. No one truly knows what their life is worth or where their purpose lies until the story is almost over. It’s like…” She stood, waving her hands through the air, fingers fluttering as if she was brushing her hand over invisible threads. “It’s like… a tapestry. Right now, we are just weaving threads, hoping we’re doing something worthwhile. It isn’t until much later on that we can see the true effects of what we have done.”

Aerin pursed his lips, mulling that over. He gave Nia a cursory glance. “You… are very wise, priestess.”

Nia smiled bashfully and ducked her head, a modest blush creeping across her cheeks. “You can credit my mentor for that. He taught me everything I know.”

“No. I don’t think he did.” Aerin shook his head. The kind of wisdom Nia bestowed upon him now, that did not come by word of mouth or through written text. The way she spoke, the honesty of her words, he knew that everything she had shared with him today, she had learned on her own. He had been a fool for ever believing her to be another naive acolyte of the Light. Or perhaps she was once, but Aerin firmly believed that people were capable of change. They had to be, or else there would be no hope for him.

Nia dipped her head in gratitude at his hidden compliment, then glanced toward the open doorway. “I should probably go to bed. We have a long day tomorrow but… just think about what I said, okay?”

Aerin nodded. “Thank you, Nia. For trying to teach me. And for taking the time to talk to me. I think… I think it helped.”

She smiled benevolently as she made her way out of the room. “Any time.” Nia was almost through the doorway, her hand on the handle when she halted in her tracks as if struck by a sudden thought. “You know…” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “If you need someone to talk about not having any magic with… There’s always Mal. I know it doesn’t always seem like it, but he can be very understanding. And if you want to learn about knives, well… He has plenty to say about that as well.”

Aerin huffed a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind. Goodnight, Nia.”

Nia nodded. “Goodnight, Prince Aerin.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Aerin alone with his thoughts. Nia had certainly given him a lot to mull over.  _ Sacrifice, magic, purpose, and tapestries…  _ Yes, she was certainly wise beyond her years. It was no wonder why she was the youngest person to ever ascend to full priesthood.

Aerin had just flopped back onto his mattress when another knock sounded on his door. Although this time, he did not bother to drag himself out of bed. It was probably Nia. Perhaps she had more wisdom to bestow.

“Come in,” he drawled, head lolling to the side to watch the door. It seemed that he was finally feeling tired enough to sleep. 

The door swung open and Aerin sat up so quickly, he felt a muscle in his neck twinge in protest. He cleared his throat. “Iliana.”

She stood in the doorway, dressed in an oversized linen shirt that fell all the way to her bare knees. Her hair was damp and shiny, slicked back from her weary face, and her skin still held a violet flush, as if she had just finished scrubbing it free of the day’s travel. She had probably just come from the washroom.

“Hi,” she greeted him, offering up a tentative and undeniably apologetic smile. “I didn’t know if you were still awake but I just saw Nia leave so I thought…” She wrapped her arms around herself, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as her emerald gaze flitted around the room before settling on his countenance. If Aerin was not mistaken, she almost seemed… nervous. But why?

Iliana swallowed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Can I come in?”

Aerin’s answer was immediate. “Of course.”

Iliana’s shoulder seemed to sag in relief and she slipped into his room, closing the door behind her. Aerin hauled himself up his bed, pressing his back to the headboard and leaving room for her to sit beside him.

“Why was Nia here?” she asked, the mattress dipping beneath her weight as she sat down, drawing her knees up to her chest.

Aerin glanced sidelong at her as he picked at a loose thread in his sleeve. “She wanted to see how I was doing after everything. Tried to teach me how to use the Light. But it didn’t work,” Aerin added when Iliana’s brows creased. “I don’t have an affinity for magic.”

Iliana nodded slowly, her gaze roaming across his face as she rested her chin atop her knees. “Is it bad to admit that I am sort of glad that you don’t?”

Aerins lips twisted as he shook his head and slid down to lay on his back. “I thought the same thing. As it turns out, I like having my life back.” He reached out, taking Iliana’s hand and tugging her down to lay beside him. “She also gave me a bit of a pep talk about how not having magic doesn’t make me useless.”

Iliana’s eyes narrowed as she stretched out on her side, folding one of her arms beneath her head. “It doesn’t.” When he did not respond, she squeezed his hand insistently. “Aerin, it doesn’t.”

Aerin rolled onto his side and sighed, his breath stirring the drying strands of her hair. “I still have not figured out how that is true yet.”

Iliana frowned. “You’re useful to me.”

Aerin gave her a wry smile. “You’re sweet.”

Her frown only deepened. “I’m serious, Aerin. You make me…” Her gaze fell, carefully training itself on the pillows as if she could not bear to meet his stare. “You help me keep going. I don’t know if I would have been able to do any of this without you, even if I had all of the answers.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he chided, untangling their fingers to run his hand along the exposed part of her arm, a trail of goosebumps rising in his wake. “Of course you would have. There’s nothing you can’t do, with or without my help.”

“You say that,” Iliana murmured, a tremor rolling down her spine, “because you still have no idea what you mean to me.”

Aerin’s heart seized in his chest. “Iliana,” he whispered, for he could not manage anything else. “Why are you here?”

Iliana’s brows drew together, a pained expression crossing her face. “I…” She sat up, untangling herself from his arms as she shook her head and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.

Instantly, Aerin felt a spike of concern lance through his chest. He sat up straight, reaching to draw her hands away from her face. “Iliana. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied quickly, too quickly for him to believe her. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just…”

“Just what?” he asked, rubbing his thumbs into the backs of her knuckles. “Talk to me.”

Iliana drew in a sharp breath and ground her teeth together as if it physically pained her to admit it. When she exhaled, the confession came rushing out in a flood of words. “I’m  _ scared _ , Aerin. Terrified. You were right. Everything’s going to change soon. Our lives are going to get even more dangerous, even more out of control. War is coming and it’d be naive of me to ignore the fact that we’re probably going to lose something. Lose people we care about. And last night…” 

She squeezed her eyes shut, breath coming in sharp pants. “I almost lost  _ you _ , Aerin. Last night reminded me that life is fragile and fleeting and it hurts.” She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his shoulder so that he could not see her face as she admitted, “I don’t want to waste another second waiting for a perfect moment. There is never going to be a perfect moment for us.”

Aerin’s heart stilled in his chest. His mind was racing but none of the words lingered long enough to stick. “What are you saying?”

Iliana’s shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath and pulled back, her gaze searching his face as she struggled to string the words together. “I’m saying…Whatever this is between us,” she said, her fingers tightening around his. “Whatever it is, I’m all in.”

Aerin wasn’t sure he was breathing anymore. His voice was a hoarse croak. “Iliana―”

She squeezed his hand, signaling that she wasn’t quite done and Aerin broke off. He did not know what to say anyway. Her brows drew together. “I’m saying that you―that I… Hells, I have no idea what I’m saying,” Iliana muttered, then before Aerin could reply, she seized the front of his tunic and pulled him forward, crushing her lips to his.

Aerin instantly melted into her touch, sighing against her mouth as she pressed against him, pulling him back onto the mattress so that they laid on their sides, legs tangled together. She kissed him softly at first, giving him the time and space to pull away if he so pleased. But,  _ gods _ , he didn’t. Aerin matched the growing fervor of her kisses, his free hand flattening against the curve of her spine as his weariness melted into something hot and molten that burned in his veins. 

_ Whatever it is, I’m all in.  _

Aerin felt something bloom in his chest, an electric current skittering across his bones as he deepened their kiss. One of her hands curled around the back of his neck, her long fingers tangling into his hair as the other brushed over his collarbone, across his chest, and Aerin was aching with the overwhelming need to touch and be touched, to feel her skin against his. He combed his fingers through her hair, which was still damp and smelled faintly of the honeyed soap in the washrooms, then skimmed his hand over the length of her body, feeling the ridges of her ribs, the dip of her waist, and the swell of her hip through the linen shirt until finally― _ finally _ ―his palm slid against the warm flesh of her bare thigh.

Iliana’s fingers curled around his wrist and Aerin immediately stilled, fearing that he had crossed some sort of boundary and prepared to pull away when she tightened her hold, moved her lips more insistently against his, and guided his hand beneath her tunic.

This could not be real. This could not be happening. Surely, this was a hallucination or some sort of dream, and if it was, he never wanted to wake up.

Iliana slipped her knee between his thighs and dragged it up, grinding her hips against his, and Aerin was hopeless, unable to stop the wanton groan that fell from his lips and onto hers. Aerin was caught, torn between focusing on the cut of her hips against his and the feel of her skin, so warm beneath his palm as he trailed it up her body, his hand following the same path it had taken earlier but in reverse. She shivered in his arms as his fingers wandered along the edge of her breast bindings, teetering on the precipice of the worldly and the unknown.

Iliana’s fingers wound themselves into the hem of his tunic. “Off,” she mumbled against his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. “Take it off.”

_ Anything,  _ Aerin thought almost immediately as he obliged her, pulling back and shifting his weight onto his knees to pull his shirt over his head. Anything she asked, he would do. It was not until Aerin dropped his tunic over the side of his bed and saw Iliana’s gaze sweep over his exposed skin that he realized what a vulnerable thing it was, to strip down like this, to leave yourself bare for someone else. Distantly, he thought that it felt a lot like shedding armor. Both acts required some sort of surrender. 

But then Iliana’s scar-speckled hands were on his shoulders, fluttering over his skin like a pair of silvery blue turtle doves. She rocked up on her knees and pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, the edge of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, and then the scarred mess of his chest.

“Iliana…” His voice was barely more than a tremulous exhale. His rabbit heart could not take it, the tenderness he was now beholden to. He was going to drown in it. 

Aerin wrapped his arms around her, his hand sliding beneath her nightshirt, tracing up her spine to the wings of her shoulder blades. He had no idea what he was doing, no idea if Iliana was enjoying this―whatever it was, whatever it would be―nearly as much as he was, but when his fingers skimmed the edge of her bindings once more, she shuddered and pressed more tightly against him. 

Her voice was low and husky in his ear. “You can take that off, too.”

Saints, spirits, and gods―bless them all.

One hand framing her hip, the other snaking beneath her tunic, Aerin carefully unwound her bindings, revealing smooth, burning skin beneath. Iliana reclined back against the mattress, pulling him over her so that his hips rested flush against the cradle of hers, and sealed her lips to his, hands roaming everywhere they could reach. They slid down his torso, over the quivering muscles of his stomach, which jumped beneath her touch, and lower, lower, lower… 

Aerin broke their kiss with a groan, his head dropping into the crook between Iliana’s neck and shoulder as she gripped him through his trousers and the entire lower half of his body flooded with a delicious warmth. In response―retaliation or repayment―Aerin dragged himself through the haze of his mind and brought his hand from her shoulder blades, along the swoop of her ribs, and to her chest, cupping the weight of one of her breasts in his palms.

Iliana gasped something that sounded a lot like his name and arched into his touch, her back curving like a bow drawn taut. Her hips canted up toward his and her next words made Aerin’s mind go blissfully blank.

“Aerin,” she breathed, eyes fluttering shut as her head fell back against the pillow, exposing her neck to his hungry lips. Her free hand slid over his bare shoulders and up his neck, tangling in his dark curls as she murmured, “More. I want you to touch me.”

Aerin’s heart slammed to a stop, as did every coherent thought that raced through his head. He drew back, his hazel eyes clouding with something that made Iliana’s gaze sharpen with mortified clarity. “I…”

“Only if you want to, of course,” Iliana quickly amended, her cheeks flushing with something that was akin to shame. She withdrew her other hand and pressed her palm into the mattress, prepared to pull away. “I didn’t mean―”

“No!” Aerin blurted, his fingers tightening around her waist in a way he hoped didn’t seem desperate, even though it was. “I mean, no, of course, I want to. I just…” he swallowed hard, glancing away as a furious blush crept its way up his throat, blooming across his cheeks. “...never have.”

She gaped at him. “You’ve never… touched someone before?” Iliana shook her head, her thumb brushing over a notch at the back of his neck. “I know that you told me you’ve never… but I thought that was different.”

Aerin shrugged nonchalantly although his expression darkened slightly. “Nobody ever wanted me to,” he admitted dryly, internally wincing as he glanced away, focusing instead on the pillows, Iliana’s dark hair splayed out amongst them. “Why bother with me when you could have Baldur? The Crown Prince?”

Iliana wrinkled her nose. “ _ I  _ wouldn’t want Baldur.”

Aerin chuckled, his thumb swiping over her hip bone, which was now exposed as her tunic bunched around her waist. “I know  _ you _ wouldn’t, but many others would. Did.” He grew quiet, brows creasing as he noticed her bewilderment, and cringed inwardly. “I apologize if my, ah,  _ inexperience  _ is… unbecoming.”

“No, it’s not that.” Iliana shook her head, pushing herself up on her elbow. She looked down at him for a long, searching moment, her gaze sliding over the lean curves of his arms, the soft plane of his abdomen, the scalpel sharp jut of his collarbone. She reached out, brushing her fingers over the slope of his cheek, the bow of his lips, his dark brows, and he fought to stop himself from chasing her touch. “It’s just… Aerin, you’re gorgeous. I find it hard to believe that no one has ever…” 

He blushed furiously at her praise, even as he asked, “Ever what?”

Iliana bit down hard on her lip as she forced herself to drag her gaze back up the length of his body to meet his bright eyes. “Wanted you. Like I do.”

His fingers pressed hard into the tender flesh of her hips as his breath hitched. “You do?”

Iliana looked at him as if he was truly clueless. Perhaps he was. But to his immense relief, her answer was an emphatic,  _ “Yes.” _

“I…” Aerin swallowed hard although he held her gaze as he admitted, “I want you, too.”

She grinned, a mischievous twinkle gleaming in her eyes as her fingertips brushed low over his stomach. “I know.”

Aerin smothered her smug mouth with his own, feeling her smile against his lips. “I want you,” he repeated in between hot kisses, voice hoarse. He felt brazen, overheated, and out of control―he loved every second of it. He was powerless in her hands, and for once, he did not mind. “I want to give you what you want. Everything you want.”

“I could show you, if you’d like,” Iliana murmured against his lips, her fingers curling around his wrist and guiding his hand between her legs. “How to touch me.”

Aerin pulled back, and this time, his hazel eyes were nearly black, pupils blown wide with desire. A shaky breath left his lips. “By all means. Please do.” He kissed her again, hungrily. “Show me what you like.”

Iliana framed Aerin’s hand with her own, her fingers lining up behind his, and― _ Holy _ fuck. 

Aerin stifled a groan against her neck at the wetness he found there, soaking through her smallclothes, and Iliana gasped, her fingers instinctively flexing against his and pressing down, holding him against her as her hips canted into his palm.

“That’s you,” she panted, eyes fluttering shut as she pressed her head back against the pillows, baring the slim curve of her neck to him. “That’s all because of you.”

Swearing under his breath, Aerin helped drag her smallclothes down her legs, laughing lightly when they snagged on her foot and she impatiently kicked them off. Then he was back between her legs, his touch unobstructed now, and Iliana was guiding his fingers through her folds. “Here,” she gasped, her breath hitching, fingertips pressing insistently against his. “Touch me here.”

That sight alone―the sight of his hand and Iliana’s, moving together against her―Aerin bit down hard on his bottom lip to stifle a moan as he pressed his hips against the mattress, seeking momentary relief.

Iliana’s eyes snapped open at the choked sound, her eyes snagging on his hips before meeting his stare. With her free hand, she brushed her fingers down his stomach, then, never breaking his gaze, even as her body trembled beneath his touch, she slipped her hand into his trousers and took him into her palm.

It was all molten heat and blazing fires, and Aerin keened as she gently stroked him. Aerin sealed his lips to hers as he pressed his fingers more insistently to the spot she had directed him to. She let out a choked groan and bit down on his lip before pulling back, her voice harried and hoarse. “This. Do this.”

Iliana shifted their hands so the heel of his palm now ground against her and pressed her index finger against his, guiding it through her folds, down, down―

_ “Aerin.” _ His name was a sigh and a moan on her lips as their fingers slipped inside, curling against her inner walls and Aerin marveled at the warmth and the softness of it all. He could not help but think that if  _ this _ was how she felt around his fingers, then Light save him, he would not stand a chance if she―

Aerin choked on a groan as she squeezed her fingers around him, stroking from base to tip. In his marvelling and fantasizing, he had somehow forgotten about that hand, although he certainly paid attention now. 

Iliana laughed softly, the sound so low and honey-sweet, Aerin shuddered against her. “Look at you,” she murmured, her lidded eyes slivers of emerald ore as she gazed at him through dark lashes. “You’re beautiful.”

Aerin shook his head in protest. “That’s you.”

And it most certainly was. Iliana was a vision, her cheeks glowing violet, hair splayed out across the pillows like dark rivers of liquid night. He could see the outline of her body―the swells of her breast, the plane of her stomach, the curve of her waist―through the thin linen of her tunic, and stiffened even more in her hand. He wanted to see her, all of her.

“If you keep doing that,” he rasped against her neck. “I’m not going to last.”

“Who said you have to last?” she replied lowly, tightening her hold around him for emphasis. “I have no intention of letting this one time be the last.”

_ Gods above.  _ Aerin shook his head, and with an immense amount of effort, forced his free hand to cover hers, stilling her ministrations. “Not like this,” he breathed, unfurling her fingers and squeezing them for emphasis. “I want you.”

The hand Iliana held between her legs to guide him stilled, although Aerin did not dare stop. Her eyes widened with understanding, then sparkled as she smiled. “As you wish.”

She placed her palm against his shoulder to push him back but Aerin held firm, curling his finger against her walls and causing her breath to hitch. “Not yet. I want to see you.”

Aerin delighted at the way her face slackened in surprise, how her eyes darkened with lust and her tongue swiped across her bottom lip. She swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes.”

Iliana pulled both of her hands away, her fingers curling in the bed sheets. As Aerin slipped another finger in, drawing another moan from her lips, he realized that this was perhaps the first time he was the one in control and Iliana could only follow his tide. He hardened further at that thought alone. 

Aerin continued moving as she had told him, grinding his palm against her clit as he pumped his fingers, pressing the pads of his fingertips against the tightness of her walls. Iliana keened, the soles of her feet pressing against the mattress to gain leverage and ride his fingers, but Aerin pinned her hip with his free hand, fingers whispering over her waist.

Iliana’s eyes bore into his, her gaze burning with lust and amusement as she breathily noted, “You like this.”

He knew what she meant. Being in control. Touching her without her touching him. He could not lie, how many times had he imagined that? Imagined this? Far too many. Aerin flushed under her gaze, all of his depraved thoughts coming to surface. But he was no longer in the habit of lying to her. Aerin curled his fingers once more as he replied, “Yes.”

Something ignited in Iliana’s gaze and she unfurled one of her hands from the sheets to cup the back of his neck, pulling his mouth to hers. She kissed him desperately, savagely. “So do I.”

He kept working her, pressing his fingers harder into the spot that seemed to make her writhe. Iliana moaned in response, back arching as Aerin lavished his attention upon her neck. He was lost―lost in a world of which he’d always dreamed. Iliana’s body was warm beneath his hand, and fingers were tangled in his hair like they were holding on to the last remaining tether she had to this realm. 

“Aerin, I…” Iliana trailed off, unable to continue the thought. Her voice was high and reedy and when Aerin drew back long enough to study her face, he saw that her eyes were hazy with ecstasy. Because of him. She shook her head. “I’m going to…”

Aerin kissed her, increasing his pace even as his other hand left her hip to gently cradle the back of her head. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her temple, her cheek, and then the spot below her ear before whispering, “I want to see you.”

She gave him a sight. Iliana threw her head back and gasped, her knees trapping his hips between them as a tremor rolled down her thighs and she tightened impossibly around his fingers. Her spine arched, chest pressing flush to his, and Iliana cried out Aerin’s name, fingers knotting themselves into his curls as she came. 

Aerin watched, utterly entranced as Iliana came down from her high, still fluttering around his fingers as he withdrew them. Aerin felt drunk, utterly intoxicated just on the sight of everything that had just happened. Iliana closed her eyes, her chest heaving as she caught her breath, and Aerin slipped his hand out from behind her neck to gently brush the back of his knuckles against the soft plane of her cheek.  _ Incredible. _

Iliana’s eyes fluttered open and Aerin realized too late that he had uttered that word aloud. She grinned at him, then tilted her head to kiss his hand. “That’s you.”

Aerin opened his mouth to reply, then shook his head bashfully and kissed her cheek. Then her jaw, her neck, and her shoulder, pulling away the collar of her tunic to expose more skin until Iliana laughed, drawing his lips up to meet hers.

“Was it good?” Aerin asked when they parted.

Iliana raised a brow, her knee knocking against his hip as her lips twisted slyly. “Did you see what happened? I’d say it was more than  _ good _ , Aerin.”

She shoved herself to her elbows and gently pushed against his shoulder until Aerin rolled onto his back. Immediately, his hands found her hips as she straddled him, her fingers curling into the hem of her tunic and yanking the material over her head. She dropped her shirt over the side of the bed, then tugged on the waistband of Aerin’s trousers, grinning roguishly. “Your turn.”

Aerin helped her pull them down, eagerly kicking them off his legs and reveling when they ended up in a discarded pile of linen on the floor with the rest of their clothes. Aerin hardly had a moment to process that he was completely bare before Iliana and she before him, when she ground herself down against him, permitting him to feel the full effects of his earlier ministrations. Aerin groaned, his head falling back against the pillows, reacting exactly as Iliana had done moments ago, when their roles were reversed. Now Iliana was in charge once more, and Aerin could do nothing but watch with bated breath to see where she took him.

Aerin took his lip between his teeth, biting so hard he feared he might draw blood as Iliana continued to grind against him, warm and wet and utterly divine. Aerin unlatched his hands from her hips and slid them upward, skimming over the taut muscles of her stomach, now exposed to him. Then he reached up to cup her breasts in his palms, brushing his thumbs over her pert skin as he finally gazed upon her for the first time.

He had never seen anything more beautiful. Breathtaking.

This was Iliana at her most exposed, her most vulnerable. There was no armor, no leather plates. Just soft skin and scars. To the rest of the world, she was strong and fearless and devastating, but here, before him, she was all of that and so much more. She was real, and she was letting him in.

And it was then that Aerin faced the devastatingly wonderful truth: he was hopelessly in love with her. He was in love with her, he had been all along, and he would continue to be in love with her until the day he died, however far away that was.

He wanted to tell her, even if she did not feel the same, but the words died on his tongue.  _ Coward. _

Before Aerin could withdraw into his head to haul up his courage, Iliana’s fingers wrapped around his wrists and pulled them away, pinning them to the mattress beside his head as she leaned down and kissed him softly, briefly, a sly grin on her lips.

It was in that smirk of hers that Aerin realized she would be the death of him.

“Iliana,” he protested. He wanted to touch her, to make her tremble for him all over again, but her grip did not ease up.

“You’re not the only one that likes control, prince,” she purred, her hips still rocking against his, her heat gliding over him. “Look at you, so lovely and good to me.”

Aerin arched his neck up, seeking her lips like a fish drawn to bait. She obliged him, kissing him softly, sweetly, and it was in her kiss that Aerin found his courage. Not quite enough for a grand confession, but a prelude to it. Another truth to make up for the history of lies. “You have me,” he whispered against her skin. “I’m all yours.”

Iliana’s breath hitched and she drew back, emerald eyes swimming in a curtain of her dark hair. “You mean that, don’t you?”

“I do.”

Iliana’s brows drew together, and before Aerin could ask what that meant, she surged forward, capturing his lips in a hungry kiss. At the same time she reached back, took him into her hand, and sheathed him in her warmth.

Aerin swore, reaching for her hips, her waist, for anything he could hold, and this time, Iliana let him. His hands slid along her spine, holding her close as she began to roll her hips. He could not speak, could not think about anything beyond Iliana and the pleasure she gave him, building him up to a peak he feared he might never come back from. 

Iliana rose and fell above him, over and over and over, establishing a slow, hedonistic rhythm that left him panting beneath her, his fingers pressing so hard into hips he worried they might leave bruises. But when he moved to pull away, Iliana covered his hands with hers, holding them there. “These,” she murmured breathlessly, “I want to keep.”

Aerin groaned and she caught the sound with her mouth, draping herself over him, pressing her chest to his, her forehead to his, until their bodies were nearly perfectly aligned. Iliana continued to roll her hips against his, small gasps leaving her lips that ghosted over his as she brought him higher and higher, his mind clouding with bliss.

_ “Iliana.” _ Aerin’s voice was wrecked,  _ he _ was utterly wrecked, wholly debauched beneath her. A broken sound left his lips, a protest, when she pulled away and pushed herself up again, increasing her tempo. “I’m going to―”

“It’s okay,” she murmured, her hands roaming over his chest, his abdomen. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. When Aerin fell over that edge, he wanted― _ needed _ ―her to be there right beside him. He reached out, framing her hip with his hand as he pressed his thumb against her, touching her just as she had taught him to.

Iliana’s eyes snapped open and her movements faltered, clenching hard around him as she folded forward, fingers fisting in the sheets beside his head. “What… are you…” She shook her head, swallowing hard as she jutted her hips into his hand as if unable to help herself.

“You too,” was all Aerin could manage, tangling his other hand in her hair as he pulled her down to kiss her again, over and over. “You too.”

Iliana shuddered, already close again, and did not stop him as she resumed her pace, although now there was a desperation, an urgency to her movements, that stole Aerin’s breath away. It was not long before she tightened around him, her body spasming as she came again, and this time, when she went over the edge, Aerin went with her. He choked out a groan, Iliana’s name spilling over his lips like honey as a blazing warmth flooded through his veins, scorching everything in its path. 

They stayed like that for a few moments, catching their breath, before Iliana slid off of him and rolled into his side. He felt her lips brush against his shoulder, then his neck, and before she could take them anywhere else, Aerin tilted his head and caught her mouth in a tender, lazy kiss.

“Are you okay?” Iliana whispered when she pulled away.

Aerin exhaled heavily, rolling onto his stomach and wrapping his arms around her as he rested his chin on her chest. “I think I died.”

Iliana snorted, her fluttering fingers sweeping some of his hair away from his forehead. “I certainly hope you did not.”

Aerin shook his head, pressing his lips to the valley between her breasts. “I had no idea it would be like that,” he had admitted sheepishly. “I never imagined it would be that… good. Amazing.”

Iliana lifted a brow, tilting her head in the pillows. “So you’ve imagined it before?

“Of course I have.” Didn’t everyone at some point?

Her chest dipped beneath him as she laughed lightly. “I meant us. You’ve imagined you and me together before?”

_ Oh. _ Aerin felt his face go aflame with embarrassment, but he answered her anyway. “Yes. More times than I’d like to admit,” he confessed, his knuckles trailing down her spine. “But this was better than I imagined. You’re better than I imagined, and I imagined…” Aerin shook his head, stopping before he could humiliate himself even further. He tilted his head, gazing at her softly. “You’re so much more.”

Iliana smiled so brilliantly it almost hurt to look at her. “I imagined you, too,” she admitted, lazily combing her hand through his hair. “And you are so much more than everything I ever dreamed.”

Aerin’s chest ached with how impossibly full it felt. Something akin to wonder bloomed in Iliana’s eyes as her fingers wandered down his temple, skimmed over his cheek, then brushed the corner of his mouth. He had not even realized until then that he was smiling.

“I like it when you smile,” she murmured, her face lighting up with surprise and mischief when Aerin nipped one of her fingertips.

“I like  _ you, _ ” he replied, kissing the finger he had bitten in apology.

Iliana’s brows rose, her gaze flicking between his eyes. “You’ve gotten brave.”

Aerin lifted himself onto his elbows, holding himself over her as he kissed her cheek. “You make me brave.”

Again, there was that troubled crease in her brows, the same one that had formed when Aerin said he was hers. But before Aerin could question it or smooth out the line with his thumb, Iliana shook her head, her face brightening once more. She playfully tugged on one of his curls, then lifted her arms over her head, baring herself to him, pushing her chest toward his.

“If you’re feeling so brave,” she crooned, gazing at him through her dark lashes, “then perhaps you’d like to show me what exactly you imagined.”

Aerin grinned, his hands sliding up her waist to frame her ribs as he shifted himself over her. He would definitely like that.


	27. Smoke and Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: blood, death, and violence.

_ The first thing Iliana noticed was the sound of drums. _

_ The bone drums beat into the darkness, stirring fear, dread, and all of the other feelings of terror that fueled the Great Conquerors _ ― _ emotions that curdled their bloodlust and stoked their ambition. Lesser creatures of Shadow cowered in the darkness, beasts fled with their tails tucked between their legs before a battle was even had. Iliana shuddered to think what kind of monsters these conquerors had to be to send even the Shadow beasts running. _

_ From the rocky outcropping of volcanic rock on which Iliana stood, she observed the mighty forces of the Empire of Ash. Hordes of soldiers teemed far below her, churning like ebony waves. Iliana did not know if there was a sun in the Realm of Shadow or if it was constantly plunged in darkness and the strange, bruised twilight she had witnessed when she came to get Nia back. _

_ “They’re getting restless,” someone said from behind her. “They are hungry for war.” _

_ Iliana turned to find the robed figure standing vigil by her side. So this was not just an ordinary dream. Or a nightmare. “You again. Is this another freaky dream or is this… real?” _

_ “It is real, although we are not.” The figure tilted its head and Iliana could have sworn she felt a glimmer of familiar amusement roll off of him as eyes she could not see surveyed her. “You’re almost there, Iliana. But so are they. Come.” _

_ Without another word, the figure strode away from the edge, leading her toward a narrow path she had not noticed before. Iliana glanced between the figure and the war camp, and hurried after him.  _

_ The path down to the base of the cliff was jagged and treacherous, sometimes forcing Iliana to scale down a wall of rock or shuffle along a ledge that was barely wide enough to allow a toe hold. Oddly enough, the robed figure never seemed to traverse these obstacles. Every time Iliana came across one of them, he was already waiting on the other side, transported by magic or something else.  _

_ She huffed, wiping sweat out of her eyes and leaving streaks in the black dust that dirtied her face as she finally reached the base of another rock wall. “If none of this is real, can’t you just transport us to wherever it is we need to go?” _

_ The robed figure merely looked at her from the ominous shadows of its dark hood, then turned around and continued on, leaving Iliana with no choice but to follow.  _

_ Eventually, they reached the southernmost edge of the Empire’s camp. Two guards were stationed by the entrance, humanoid figures whose statures mirrored that of elves, their faces indistinguishable at this distance. They were clad in armor formed of some sort of oily black metal that reflected the oppressive cluster of purple and grey clouds that churned overhead. As she and the robed figure drew closer, Iliana realized that it was not the distance that made the guards’ faces indistinguishable _ ― _ they simply were. If Iliana looked out of the corner of her eye, she could see the impression of features, a pale nose, depthless eyes. But whenever she looked at the guards head-on, their faces blurred into swirling pits of shadow, as if someone had smeared charcoal across their visage, erasing their identities into oblivion. _

_ Iliana frowned. It did not sit well with her to have an enemy that she could not even see. Were they like humans? Elves? Orcs? Were they like anything she had ever seen? Or were they horrifying beyond comprehension? Why couldn’t she see them? _

_ “These are ancient creatures,” the figure answered as if he had sensed her thoughts. He probably had. “They know of magicks stronger and older than any you have yet to see. Someone is using a glamor to protect the camp from prying eyes.” _

_ Her brow furrowed. “But we can still see some things?” _

_ She had the sense that the robed figure was smiling at her. “They have magic. But so do we.” _

_ Again, Iliana felt that sense of familiarity _ ― _ as if she and this strange entity could lapse into banter at any given moment, as if he knew her and she knew him. She shuddered at the thought. _

_ As they crossed through the enemy encampment, none of the armored soldiers looked their way. They passed by in a blur, smudged inkblots given life. All around them, bone drums beat in anticipation, feeding the bloodlust that simmered in the air, its stench like acrid wine. _

_ “Why are they here?” Iliana asked, gazing at the rows upon rows of tents that stretched out in all directions around them. “Why aren’t they… wherever it is that they normally reside?” _

_ “This is where the Veil is rumored to be thinnest,” the figure replied knowledgeably.  _

_ “The Veil?” _

_ “The separation between Realms,” he answered, his voice echoing all around them. “Where the Veil is thinnest, magic is more potent. Volatile.” _

Like the rifts,  _ Iliana thought. _ The Temple of the Old Gods in the Deadwood. Like Rysoth.

_ “Yes,” the figure hummed. “Like Rysoth.” _

_ “So the Veil is… thinner there?” Iliana questioned, her hands balling into anxious fists. “The Veil between the Light and Shadow Realm?” _

_ The figure paused, then slowly turned to her. “Do not be so naive as to think that the Realm of Shadow and the Realm of Light are the only in existence. The Binary Realms you know of are derivative. Created and then abandoned, left to rule themselves on their own. They are scions of Realms so great, most mortals from your realm would perish the moment they sought to cross the Veil into those lands because the magic would tear them apart.” _

_ Iliana felt her stomach twist. “What do you mean it would tear them apart?” _

_ “Magic has an origin,” the figure explained as he resumed leading her through the encampment, toward its heart. “A source. The closer a Realm is to that source, the stronger the magic.” _

_ “And our Realm… is it close to this source?” Iliana prodded, absently surveying their surroundings, trying to gauge what exactly they were up against. But Iliana had never been to war, did not know what this army’s caliber was. She could not even judge the soldiers, for she could not see them. All she knew for certain was that they had weapons. Lots of them. _

_ “Your Realm is close enough to feel its heat, but not enough to be burned to ash.”  _

_ Your  _ Realm _ , Iliana noted.  _ Not  _ our. _

_ Although the figure’s voice was monotone, Iliana imagined that there was a gravity to his voice that had not been there before. “The closer magic is to its source, the more will it has. Magic has crushed worlds whose inhabitants were not strong enough to wield it. But it has also fled from those who wish to exploit it.” _

_ Iliana sucked in a soft breath. “That is why it is no longer common in Morella. We abused it.” _

_ “Do you know why the orcs took to the seas?” the figure asked rhetorically. “Because they ravaged their ancestral lands _ ― _ stripped them bare. It is nothing more than a charred hunk of rock, a place where no life will ever grow. They believed magic was a blessing of the elements, and when they stripped their land of life, magic abandoned them as punishment.” _

_ “Humans worship it, cling to it,” the figure continued, and Iliana was certain she was not imagining the bitterness that edged its way into his voice. “They scavenge for scraps of magic, and even then, they must pay a steep price for what little they get.” _

_ Iliana swallowed hard, unsure if she could face this truth. “And the elves?” _

_ “Elves pay the price magic demands of them, so it is given,” the figure said, voice once more devoid of emotion, although his words held enough bite on their own. “But you elves are ambitious and cunning. And for a dozen of your mages, the delicate give and take relationship with magic was not enough. So they found magic from another realm, and that magic recognized their hunger, their willingness to give whatever it took to gain more power. And it obliged them. They became vessels, free to use this magic as they pleased, unaware of its true price: their souls.” _

_ Iliana’s heart seized in her chest. “The Shadow Court. They are the product of that magic. Magic that sought to destroy. To take over. And the Realm of Shadow…” _

_ “It is full of that beastly magic. It was overrun by it.” The figure filled in the blanks for her. “You call it corrupted magic, but it is not. It is  _ pure _ magic, magic that does not know temperance, magic that will not just yield to anyone.” _

_ Iliana shook her head, her mind reeling from all of this information. “Why are you telling me this? The Dreadlord is gone. The Shadow Court is dissolved. Any remaining members have gone into hiding without their lord to stand behind.”  _

_ “Because this magic  _ does  _ yield to  _ them _ ,” he replied, waving his hand around the Empire’s encampment. “Their mages, although few in number, are incredibly powerful. That is what you are up against. A civilization that thrived in the face of magical ruin, that coexists with it. They helped the magic take over. Culled the weak. They are not called the Great Conquerors for nothing.” _

_ Iliana’s body felt cold. “Gods…” she breathed. _

_ The figure nodded. “You will need them.” _

_ No sooner had he said that did they come upon a tent that was larger and more well-crafted than the rest _ ― _ their apparent destination. Iliana figured this out as her strange companion wordlessly disappeared  _ through _ the tent walls. She sucked in a sharp breath. Was she supposed to do that?  _ Could  _ she do that? _

_ Iliana found her answer as she braced herself, then walked into the wall. Iliana could feel the coarse canvas whisper against her skin, the barest echo of sensation, and then she was through. She found herself inside of what was obviously a war tent, the center of command.  _

_ There were several other beings in the tent with her, their faces concealed by whatever protective magic was placed over the camp. Their backs were to her, obstructing from view whatever it was that they were looking at. Some were dressed in the armor Iliana had seen on the other soldiers as they passed through the rows of tents, although one’s armor was more ornate than the rest, limned in gold trim. Iliana knew without a doubt that this was the army’s leader. Perhaps the general. _

_ “Not the general,” Iliana’s companion murmured. “The Emperor.” _

_ Iliana’s body went rigid with fear. She was staring at the ruler of the Empire of Ash, the leader of the Great Conquerors.  _

_ She watched, her breath caught in her throat as the figure in gold-trimmed armor tilted his head and she caught the charcoal blur of his glamored face, as if he had glanced over his shoulder in their direction _ ― _ as if he had  _ heard  _ them. Seen them. _

That’s impossible, _ Iliana reminded herself.  _ You aren’t really here. 

_ She exhaled a sigh of relief when the Emperor turned away, refocusing his attention on whatever it was that laid before him. Iliana took a moment to gaze around the command center, her stomach twisting as she took stock of the various maps that were laid out across wooden tabletops. She recognized the shapes on the map, knew them like the back of her hand. It was a map of Morella. Her home.  _

_ “Pay attention,” the robed figure urged her and Iliana dragged her gaze back to the gathering of Ash soldiers on the other side of the tent. _

_ “So this will work?” the Emperor asked and Iliana started in surprise. The Emperor spoke in some ancient language, the words sharp and unfamiliar, but she heard him perfectly in her tongue. His voice was deep and smooth, although it chilled Iliana to the bone. It spoke of the impenetrable darkness of a world without sunlight, without stars. It spoke of depthless caverns, and of old creatures that were better left forgotten in the shadows of broken legacies and other monstrous things. _

_ “Yes, Emperor,” replied another voice, although Iliana could not see who it belonged to. “This is just a small demonstration, but I assure you it can work on a large scale.” _

_ Iliana marveled over this translation and wondered if it was a property of dreams or made possible by this magic her companion spoke of having. But then, the Emperor stepped aside, breaking the ring of soldiers that surrounded the object of their attention, and provided Iliana with a full view of what they were all captivated by. _

_ Instantly, Iliana crumpled to her knees, her stomach heaving, mind reeling with disgust and horror. Four figures knelt on the ground, facing each other from the four compass points. Their hands were bound behind their backs and their bodies were stripped of clothes, revealing brutalized skin beneath. Lacerations, bruises, and gaping wounds littered the bodies of the kneeling figures. Unlike the Ash soldiers, their faces were not concealed by a glamor. They were, however, swollen and beaten beyond recognition. Only one of the figures was covered in a thick smattering of hair, but Iliana knew who these people were. The Khagan’s missing halflings. _

_ Before them, a trench was dug into the ground, although upon closer examination, Iliana realized that it was not just any trench. It formed some sort of symbol: two crossed lines.  _

_ X _ marks the spot,  _ Iliana thought morbidly, her brain dredging up the old stories Kade had told her about pirates and salty seadogs, as if the memory of childhood tales could wipe away the nightmarish reality that was laid out before her. _

_ Beside her, Iliana’s robed companion stiffened as if he had heard her thoughts. He probably had.  _

_ At the center of the cross stood another figure, its face glamored into shadow, the shape of its body dwarfed in dusty robes that once might have been grey but were now covered in volcanic ash. In their hands was a bundle of strange herbs Iliana did not recognize and some sort of blueish powder coated the bottom of the intersecting trenches. _

_ “What will this yield?” the Emperor asked in that dreadful voice. _

_ “A tear large enough to sustain a few men for a few hours,” replied the mage at the center of the cross. “When the blood has burned away, it will close.” _

_ “How many will it take to sustain the first wave?” _

_ There was a moment of silence. Of hesitation. Then _ ― _ “All of them.” _

_ A snarl of disapproval sounded from one of the other officers that the Emperor silenced with a wave of his hand. “Manners. We must show our guests that we are more than foul beasts.” Before Iliana could process what that meant, he turned back to the mage. “If all of them are what it takes, then so be it. We can always gather more. Proceed with the demonstration.” _

_ The mage nodded, then knelt at the intersection of trenches. A ball of black flame bloomed in their hand _ ―the Shadow,  _ Iliana realized with a start _ ― _ and they ignited the bundle of herbs before setting it at the center of the trenches. Then, they stood and raised their hands, which were bone-white and gnarled, with long, yellowed nails that ended in sharp points. Darkness coiled at their fingertips, vipers of Shadow _ ― _ of wicked magic _ ― _ prepared to strike. _

No. _ Iliana jolted as she realized what was about to happen.  _ No, no, no, no.

_ But her comprehension came too late, and even if it hadn’t, she was powerless to stop what came next. _

_ The mage flicked their fingers and those tendrils of Shadow lashed out, cutting clean through the necks of the halflings. Iliana tore her gaze away, staring hard at the ground as the first wet coughs cut through the air. Her fingers curled into the ground, nails breaking on the dirt, the coppery tang of blood shoving its way into her nose and down her throat, and her breaths came faster _ ― _ too fast, her vision blurring with black spots. She heard the bodies thud to the ground, felt their lives wink out like candles in a storm, and dry heaved. _

_ “Look,” the robed figure commanded her. _

_ “I can’t,” she protested, squeezing her eyes shut. This couldn’t be happening. This could  _ not _ be happening. Four people _ ― _ innocent people _ ― _ murdered before her eyes _ ―

_ “Look.” This time, the order was accompanied by a sharp yank on Iliana’s hair, although the figure did not move from his place. Iliana’s head snapped back, her gaze forcibly directed to the ritual before her. She forced the lifeless bodies to fade into her peripheral as she watched a tide of crimson wash from the edges of the  _ X _ toward the point of intersection where the bundle of herbs still burned in an immortal dark flame. Ichor seeped into the herbs, but instead of smothering the flame, it seemed to fuel it. The black flames burned red, then a luminous white-blue, and before Iliana could shield her gaze, there was a blinding flash, a spray of sparks and _ ―

_ A portal tore open in midair, casting the tent in a red, hellish light. The edges ebbed and flowed, expanded and shrank, like an ugly, bleeding heart. But the portal held and did not disappear. Through it, Iliana saw the familiar, barren plane of Cragheart, which lay only half a day’s walk from Whitetower, where the ruins of Valen _ ― _ the capital of the old elven empire _ ― _ had long since turned to dust. _

_ There was a stunned silence, and in it, Iliana understood what had happened. _

_ The Emperor recovered from his shock first. Iliana could hear the smile in his deadly voice as he turned to his officers and spoke. “Ready the first wave of troops,” he ordered. “We found our way into the Realm of Light.” _

_ Then, he did the last thing Iliana could have expected.  _

_ He turned in Iliana’s direction and the glamor on his face fell away, revealing the most beautiful man she had ever seen. His face was a work of art, sculpted of marble and overlaid with flawless, tawny skin, a stark contrast to the darkness of the realm. His face was framed by a halo of golden hair, so fine and glorious it must have been spun from the sun itself, if such a thing even existed here. His lips were full and smiling, his cheekbones high and proud. He looked… human. But his eyes were the real prize, the signifier that revealed that although his beauty was great, his countenance ethereal, it was unnatural. Haunting. Wrong. _

_ His scleras were voids, not the darkness of ink but the total absence of light between stars. Gazing into them, Iliana felt like she could fall into that oblivion. In them, she saw every tragedy that had ever befallen her. The massacre that took her parents, that ruined the town she was born in. The illness that took strong and healthy Alcmene but left Kade. The peaceful yet deeply painful death of Amphitryon. She wanted to cry, to scream, to run, as terror flooded her. But she was rooted to the spot, petrified. _

_ His irises were a blazing ring of gold, not warm like Imtura’s, but bright and searing. Their glow seemed to intensify as he sensed her fear. _

_ “Hello, little star,” the Emperor crooned. “Oh, yes. You burn bright.” He tilted his head, a cat playing with a mouse. “I wonder, are you ready for us?” _

_ There was a gasp beside her, the first real reaction or emotion Iliana’s robed companion had ever expressed. In it, she heard alarm. Fear. In it, she knew that this was not supposed to happen. _

_ The Emperor smiled and Iliana felt her blood turn to ice. She did not know who that awful smile was for, her, or her companion. “I will see you soon, Watcher.” _

_ Fingers wrapped around her wrist and Iliana felt the shock of a connection, an overwhelming sense of familiarity. Her mind threw up a series of images, too fleeting and vague to comprehend. The muddy green of pond water. The warm brown of the sunlit riverbank. A paint splatter of freckles. _

_ Iliana felt the dark robes of her companion whisper against her skin as he tugged her to feet, touching her for the first time. She felt a pinch at the center of her abdomen, succeeded by a sharp yank on her spine, and then, she was gone. _

* * *

Iliana’s fingers curled, searching for the thick material of those dark robes, but she only found plain cotton sheets. 

She was awake.

Iliana opened her eyes, her heart still hammering in her chest. She saw the pitched roof of the barracks, heard the distant rustle of leaves in the wind through the open window, felt the warmth of the body nestled against hers. She used this last sensation to steady her, anchor her to this reality, and calm her frayed nerves.

Aerin’s head was buried in the crook of her neck, his arm slung low over her bare waist, their legs tangled together, just as they had been when they fell asleep hours ago. It certainly did not feel as if Iliana had slept for hours―rather, it felt more like she had not even slept at all. But the evidence surrounded her. The sun had since crested the horizon and now hung low in the pink sky, the soft light of dawn streaming in through the windows of Aerin’s room. 

Iliana let out a long breath and forced herself to relax against the mattress. She still had a while before they had to leave for the Cave. She could still get a few more hours of sleep that she so desperately needed. But the moment Iliana closed her eyes, she saw him. The Emperor. Golden eyes swimming in a fathomless night sky. The stench of copper and burnt herbs. A lethal smile.

_ Hello, little star. _

Iliana’s eyes snapped open, her heart rate jumping once more.

_ I will see you soon, Watcher. _

Frustration and fear nestled into her chest, stealing away any hopes she still had of going back to sleep.  _ Gods damn it all. _

Iliana stared at the ceiling for a few long moments until restlessness crept its way into her bones. She carefully untangled herself from Aerin’s limbs, careful not to disturb him, even though her heart yearned to stay by his side. But she needed to get out and clear her head or else she might start crying, and waking Aerin up early because she had a silly nightmare was the last thing she wanted to do.

_ Except it was not a nightmare. It was real, _ she reminded herself.  _ The Empire is coming. And we have no allies. No gods, no army. _

Iliana quietly rolled to the edge of the mattress and stood, raising her arms overhead in a full-body stretch, her muscles aching. She wondered if Killian or Morrigan were up and about yet. Perhaps she could talk to them about the Avian Kingdom’s aerial forces. There had to be a way she could secure the aid of all of the Clans, with or without the Old Gods. Normally, she would have chided Aerin for even entertaining such doubts, but her most recent dream―vision?―had stripped away her stubborn optimism. 

Iliana combed her fingers through her hair and cringed at how it was already oily from sweat. Heat bloomed across her cheeks. Last night was… a lot. Not that she was complaining.

Iliana decided that she would try to find Killian, but first, she would wash up.

Iliana retrieved her clothes from where she had left them on the floor and quickly pulled them on. She glanced back at Aerin, who had since shifted onto his stomach and buried his face into his pillow, the sheets draped low across his back. Perhaps a little too low. She certainly did not mind, but… Iliana tugged them up, sparing Aerin the mortification in case someone like Mal barged in―as he sometimes tended to do―and saw the prince’s bare ass.

Then, unable to help herself, she placed a soft kiss to the back of his shoulder.  _ Sweet dreams, princeling. Hope they’re better than mine. _

After washing off and changing into the fresh set of clothes left in her room―a pair of lightweight brown trousers, a green tunic, leather shoulder plates, and a set of vambraces―Iliana reemerged into the barracks hallway and tried to come up with something she could offer in exchange for the Avian Kingdom’s aerial forces. Truthfully, she had absolutely nothing.

Iliana was roused from her thoughts as a door swung open before her. She paused and watched as Nia nimbly slipped out of a room and started to quietly shut the door behind her. When the door clicked shut, she turned, startled as she met Iliana’s gaze, and blinked, a blush creeping across her cheeks. “Um… Good morning, Iliana.”

Iliana blinked, then glanced at the room the other woman had just snuck out of. Iliana’s mouth dropped open as the pieces fit together. “My gods, Nia. Was that  _ Mal’s _ room?”

Nia’s face instantly turned red. She whisper-yelled, “We just talked!”

“All night?”

“No!” Nia exclaimed quietly, before dropping her voice. “Well, sort of. I don’t know how late we were up. I fell asleep there. I didn’t mean to.”

“Oh my gods,” Iliana gaped. “Are you and Mal…?”

“No!”

“But―”

“Stop. Please stop,” Nia pleaded, hiding her face in her hands. “I don’t know. We aren’t… I just… the other day, when he got injured, I was just so scared. I thought it was just because he’s one of my best friends―like you are. You know how it is. It’s always been the three of us. Ever since we all first met. And when we all started living in Whitetower.”

Nia groaned quietly, her fingers knotting in the ends of her hair as she started to ramble, her words coming so fast, Iliana had to fight to keep up. “When Mal woke up, he teased me about coddling him, just to make me feel better. But when I yelled at him to stop turning everything into a joke, he told me that he really was grateful that I was taking care of him, and I told him I would always be there to take care of him, and that was when I realized I really did mean that. Mal is reckless, and a fool, and stupidly brave but I want to be there for him, always, and not just as a friend, and I don’t know what that means, and I still haven’t told him anything because I don’t know  _ what  _ to tell him, and―

“Okay, okay, Nia, slow down,” Iliana interjected, mind-boggled by this sudden influx of new information.  _ Nia and Mal. Mal and Nia. What the hells is going on? _ “Just… breathe for a moment, okay? It sounds like you have a lot of… feelings to work out and identify, and it’s okay if you don’t know how exactly you feel yet, either. You don’t have to figure that out right now. Mal’s not going anywhere.”

Nia looked as if she was about to say more but Iliana shot her a look and Nia nodded, inhaling deeply, then slowly letting it go. After a few breaths, Nia’s face started to return to its natural color and some of the panic faded from her eyes.

“Better?” Iliana asked.

Nia nodded. “Better. Sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Iliana assured her, glancing between Mal’s room and Nia once more.  _ Mal and Nia. Nia and Mal.  _ “Um. Do you want to get some food? I’m going to try and find Killian. I was going to check the dining hall first.”

Nia took another deep breath before smiling gratefully. “I’d love to.”

Together, they strode for the dining hall, the gentle chill of the morning breeze washing over them. It was invigorating. Refreshing. The clouds were low today, floating across the tops of the lesser trees, clinging to them like a swirling mist, a blanket of cobwebs. Winding along the catwalk in a city built above the clouds, with the wind teasing her hair, and a gentle, pink sky overhead, Iliana could almost forget about all of their troubles. Almost.

“So,” Nia began as they approached the long wooden building that housed the dining hall. “I saw that you went to Aerin’s room after I left.”

Iliana glanced at her sidelong and nodded slowly. “I did. Thank you, by the way. For talking to him. I think what you said may have actually gotten through. I know that with your history and all―”

“I don’t hate him, Iliana,” Nia said softly, gazing out at the clouds. “I never did. That’s not me.”

Iliana nodded. She knew that very well. “Once, you said that you wouldn’t stop Aerin from trying to change. To atone, if that was what he was trying to do. But you said you could never forgive him for what he did. Is that still true?”

Nia was silent for a few moments, mulling her answer over. Then she replied, “Yes. But not because I don’t like him. I just… The person that needed my forgiveness is gone. He’s changed. We all know that. See that. And I think he’s starting to understand that too. Whatever happened in that cave… He’s not the same person anymore. I think we’re finally seeing what Aerin could have been like all along, without Baldur. Without the Dreadlord.” 

Nia laced her fingers together, folding them across her abdomen. “I don’t know Aerin very well, but I would like to. From what I have gotten to know about him…” Nia shrugged. “I like him.”

Iliana smiled softly. “I like him, too.”

Nia threw her a look. “I  _ know. _ ” She looked Iliana up and down, lifting a brow. “Did  _ you _ spend the night in his room?”

Iliana felt heat rise in her cheeks. “Yes.”

Nia leaned in, bumping Iliana’s shoulder with hers. “Did you… you know?”

Iliana nudged her back. “Och. When did you become such a snoop?” She rolled her eyes, but before Nia could press for more details, Iliana answered, “Yes.”

Nia squealed, gripping her arm. “I  _ knew it! _ Tyril and Mal said it would never happen but I think that’s just because they didn’t want to think about it happening and Imtura lost hope when Aerin left early last night by himself―”

“You all talked about it?” Iliana gaped.

“Did you think we wouldn’t?” Nia retorted, grinning. “After you two slept together in that cell, and you kissed him on the mountain pass, and you fussed over him when he had that fever, and you danced together in the fields, and then  _ he _ fussed over  _ you  _ after you breathed in spores, and then after you found about about our deal, you guys disappeared all night, and then you went off together into the rainforest to find that rift of Light―”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Iliana muttered, her face burning with embarrassment. “You don’t have to say any more.”

“I’m just saying,” Nia giggled, taking Iliana’s hand. “Nobody will be surprised that it happened. We’ve all been expecting it.”

“Well, everyone is just going to have to find out on their own because I am not going to tell them and neither are you,” Iliana grumbled, giving Nia a pointed look as she rubbed at her temples with her free hand. “You’re all a bunch of gossipmongers.”

“Very well,” Nia replied cheerily. “I won’t tell anyone. My lips are sealed.”

Now it was Iliana’s turn to tease. “Yeah? Even for Mal?”

Nia’s blush was back in an instant, bright and bashful. “Iliana!”

Iliana grinned. “You don’t say anything and neither will I.”

Nia huffed, flustered. “Fine.”

Iliana held up her pinkie finger and Nia looped hers around it, sealing the deal as Iliana shouldered open the doors to the mess hall. Almost instantly, her gaze fell across the winged man she was searching for, his tangle of coppery curls standing out amidst the sea of feathers, silver armor, and green cloth.

Nia squeezed Iliana’s hand and patted her elbow. “I’ll get us some food.”

Iliana nodded as Nia slipped away and drifted toward the table at the back of the room that was laden with vats of porridge, eggs, and some sort of sliced meat. Iliana took a deep breath, clinging to the plan she had hastily made on the walk over, prayed no one would call her bluff, and wove her way between the dining tables.

“Killian. I need to talk to you.”

Killian looked up from his almost empty bowl of porridge. His greyish green eyes sparkled kindly as he saw her. “Iliana Nightbloom, what can I do for you? Are you ready to journey into the Cave today?”

Iliana shrugged, shifting her weight from one foot to another. “As I’ll ever be. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

Killian looked out the windows that overlooked the rainforest and a large portion of the Aerie, then glanced at his bowl before dragging his gaze up to meet Iliana’s. “I’m on the first rotation of search and rescue―we’re still looking for your friend’s Captain―so I can accompany you to the Cave’s entrance.” He nodded toward the winged men and women that sat around him, presumably the other warriors that were going to be on watch with him. “So realistically, you have until I finish breakfast, but I will try and eat as slow as possible. Unless you would like to wait until later?”

“No.” Iliana shook her head. “This can’t really wait.”

Killian’s smiling face turned solemn as he took note of her grave expression. He nodded, chestnut brown and white wings folded tightly together to make room for her on the bench beside him. “What’s troubling you?”

Iliana sat down, placing her palms flat on the table. “I need all of the Avian Kingdom’s support in this war. All of the Clans.”

Killian’s auburn brows drew together and his gaze flicked to his companions, who had looked up with sudden interest. “I know this already and you know what I told you. The other Clans will follow if you have the Old Gods on your side.” 

“That’s not enough,” Iliana insisted, shaking her head. “We need their forces with or without the Gods. In fact, we  _ especially _ need the rest of the Clans’ support if the Old Gods cannot be found or they decide not to get involved.”

“Some people would argue that without the Old Gods, the war is already lost. Fighting would only bring more suffering. We have stayed hidden from the rest of the world for this long. Perhaps we can continue to do so from those that seek to conquer us.”

“Those people are cowards,” Iliana snapped, her knuckles whitening as she curled her fingers into her palm. She thought of the Emperor and his petrifying gaze, and tempered her fear into fiery resilience. “Some people are not willing to keel over and die at the first sign of trouble. Hiding will not stop the inevitable. At best, it may delay it. But the Empire of Ash is coming, and some magic fog will not stop them.” 

Killian grinned at her and she knew they spoke the same language: survival.

“I won’t argue with you on that,” he replied, shoveling a small bite of porridge into his mouth, as if he really was trying to stall for time. “But I must ask, why the renewed sense of urgency? You and I have already discussed this.”

“Because the Empire of Ash has found a way into our Realm, Killian,” Iliana answered, her stomach twisting itself into dozens of knots of dread. “We need to be prepared or the first wave of their attack will wipe us all out before we can even dream of fighting back.”

Killian paled, his spoon hovering before his mouth. “How do you know this?”

Iliana opened her mouth, then hesitated, suddenly aware of the attention that was on them. Killian might understand her visions, as would Morrigan. The twins seemed to have an open mind and both were familiar with Borte’s practices. But she remembered Killian saying that not all inhabitants of the Aerie were comfortable with arcane magic.

Iliana shook her head. “I just know.”

Killian pursed his lips, his face still tense and pale, although he did not press her for details, did not even question her knowledge. For that, Iliana was grateful. He sighed, setting his bowl aside and threading his fingers through his thick hair, his quip about finishing breakfast apparently forgotten. “Help me help you, Iliana. I already told you what the other Wing Leaders have said. What can I tell them to change their minds? What are you willing to offer?”

And now it was time for Iliana to bluff her way into a deal.

“As you know, the prince of Morella is in my company,” she said confidently, doing her best to mold her voice into the diplomatic but proud tone she had heard Aerin used.  _ Perhaps he should be doing this instead…  _ “And I have King Arlan’s favor. Anything the Wing Leaders want, anything they demand in exchange for their support, Morella will provide. Even though this war concerns us all, my kingdom will gladly be in debt to yours. And that is a very good place for the Avian Kingdom to be. You may call that offer desperate, and perhaps it is. But it is also an acknowledgment of how dire our circumstances are.”

Killian raised a brow. “You would make this deal on behalf of your entire kingdom? Your nobility?” 

Iliana lifted her chin. “I have the authority. We are, after all, searching for the Old Gods on the King’s behalf.” She was lying through her teeth now, but the words sounded confident and even a little haughty as she channeled all of Aerin’s poise and a bit of Baldur’s priggishness. She straightened, allowing her lip to curl smugly. “Also, as I said before, I have King Arlan’s favor.  _ And _ his son’s. Arlan’s heir.” 

Iliana certainly hoped that was still true. If for some reason, Arlan had officially denounced Aerin as his heir in their absence and word reached Rysoth, she would be in a world of trouble. But it seemed that the Avian Kingdom did not even know about everything that had happened in Morella over the last year, so she figured that her chances of getting away with this web of lies were pretty high.

“Aerin will make sure any bargains are upheld,” Iliana promised, already making a mental note to thank Aerin very graciously for the deals she was making on his behalf, even if he never had to complete them.

Killian stared at her for a long moment, then sighed wearily, raking his hand over his face. “I will call a meeting with the other Wing Leaders while you are in the Cave and give them your proposition,” he decided, and before Iliana’s heart could skip in relief, he held up a cautioning hand. “But I cannot promise they will agree to this. They may find your offer to be too vague, too good to be true. Which,” he added, giving her a knowing look. “I believe it might be.”

Iliana gritted her teeth. “It’s not.”

Killian shrugged nonchalantly and spooned the dregs of his porridge into his mouth. “It does not matter to me either way. You already have my Clan’s support thanks to Borte and Morrigan’s incessant wheedling on my father. It is you who will have to come through with these demands if the other Wing Leaders agree.” He stood and gave her a chivalrous half-bow, although the curve of his lips was teasing. “I am but your humble servant.”

Iliana scowled at him, even as her body relaxed in relief. “Cut that out. I can see why your sister tires of you.”

Killian laughed good-naturedly as he scooped up his empty bowl and patted Iliana on the shoulder. As if on cue, the rest of his companions stood as well, collecting their dishes and carrying them off to the back room. “I must go now, but I will see you all later to accompany you to the Cave,” he said. “Just remember me and my tiring ways when you become queen, Nightbloom.”

Iliana spluttered, choking on her surprise. “Excuse me?”

Killian grinned, tilting his head. Even without his metal mask on, the movement was so bird-like. “I thought you said you have the heir’s favor, do you not? You already have the presence and more than enough confidence. You’d be a shoo-in for queen.”

Iliana figured that she should be flattered, but the notion was so ridiculous she had to laugh. Her, queen? Even Kade’s stories were not so outlandish. Little did Killian know that her prince had no crown, and even if he did, some orphaned elf would not become his queen. Iliana tried not to let that realization sting. 

She shook her head. “Let’s focus on one impossible thing at a time. You work on the other Wing Leaders and I will find the Old Gods. We can dream about queens another day.”

“She can prioritize, too,” Killian quipped, giving her a mock salute as he strode away. He called over his shoulder. “I will see you when I return.”

Iliana rolled her eyes, propped her elbows on the table, and hid her face in her hands. That could have gone worse.

“Hey. Did you work out whatever it was you needed to talk to Killian about?” 

Iliana looked up as Nia sat beside her and slid a plate full of eggs, sliced meat, and a bowl of porridge her way. 

“Yeah,” Iliana said around a sigh. “Just trying to secure some allies.”

Iliana shoveled some eggs into her mouth, suddenly ravenous, and nearly choked on the taste. It wasn’t  _ bad, _ per say. Just… different. Strange. These certainly weren’t chicken eggs, although Iliana was not sure why she thought they might be. The only birds she had seen around Rysoth were those big, colorful ones that made awful screeching noises if you got too close. She wondered if the eggs came from them. And the meat… It looked like ham, but at this point, Iliana would not have been surprised if it came from one of those giant lizards. But food was food, she supposed, and took another bite.

“Allies,” Nia echoed, her lips pulled into a frown. “This is getting serious.”

Iliana’s brows drew together. She didn’t know what to say to that, did not have any comforting words for her friend, so she only said, “Yeah.”

“If we were home,” Nia wondered aloud. “I bet I could have convinced the Temple priests to help. Or at least to protect the city.”

“Shouldn’t they do that anyway?” Iliana frowned. In all of the stories she’d read about priests and priestesses, one of their main duties was protecting the towns they lived in and all of the people who occupied it. One of the greatest elven myths Tyril had shared with her, “How the Light Lasted,” was about a Priestess of Light who used all of her magic to lead the children of Valen to Undermount during the Shadow Court’s siege.

“I hope so,” Nia said quietly, although Iliana noted that she did not sound so sure.

About an hour later, having gorged themselves on porridge, meat, and eggs―which Iliana had to admit weren’t actually that bad once she got used to the taste―she and Nia emerged from the mess hall. In the time they spent in the dining hall, the sky had lightened to a pale blue and the air had already begun to warm. Thankfully, the Aerie was not nearly as humid as the forest floor.

“We still have time before we’re supposed to leave,” Nia was saying as they ambled along the catwalk, meandering away from the dining hall and barracks. “I think I’m going to stop by Borte’s workshop. Tyril pointed it out to me yesterday. I want to see if there’s anything she can teach me about healing and other magicks. If you don’t have anything else to do, you’re welcome to come with me.”

Iliana really was not looking forward to seeing the dwarf woman and did not know if she could be in her presence without feeling the urge to punt her. Although she could not deny that it would be useful to gain some more magical knowledge, about healing and other things. And, as she had told Aerin the other day, Borte would make a good ally… 

Before Iliana could give her answer, she was cut off by a sudden flurry of commotion, a series of shouts. In unison, she and Nia turned toward the source of all that noise just in time to see several birdmen land on the platform that ringed the infirmary.

Nia turned to her, eyes wide. “What do you think is going on?”

Iliana pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she replied, even as she took Nia’s hand and started toward the sickbay, eating up the distance with long, eager strides. “But whatever it is, let’s hope it’s good.”

* * *

When Aerin woke, he was alone.

As he came to consciousness, the memory of last night still fresh on his mind, Aerin stretched, his arm instinctively reaching out to draw Iliana into him, to steal some of her warmth for his own. But when his fingers met empty air and his palm grazed the indent on the mattress where she had been when he fell asleep, he realized that she was gone.

Aerin sat up instantly, squinting against the sunlight that streamed through his windows as he searched the empty room. 

_ Did she leave after I fell asleep? _ Aerin wondered, even though he knew that really meant,  _ Did last night mean nothing to her? _

_ Well, why should it?  _ he rationalized as he sat up and put his head in his hands, bracing his arms against the tops of his knees. It was just sex. People had it all the time. It didn’t have to mean anything.

But maybe this time he wanted it to.

_ Gods damn it.  _ He felt like a fool.

No sooner had he thought that did the door to his room bang open, the damned thing nearly flying off the hinges. Aerin practically jumped out of his skin at the sudden intrusion, although his heart stalled in his chest when he saw who it was.

“Iliana,” Aerin said by way of greeting, his relief evident in his voice.

Iliana stood in the doorway, already washed and dressed for the day. As he stared at her, subtly shifting the blankets around him to hide his still naked body just in case someone else passed by in the hallway and happened to peer in, Aerin realized that she was out of breath, as if she had just run here. But where had she run from?

Iliana stepped through the door and shut it behind her before she grabbed the pile of clean clothes that were left out on his dresser and tossed them his way. “Wash up and get ready. There’s something you’re going to want to see.”

Aerin frowned, glancing at the clothes she threw in his lap. “What is it? Should I be worried?”

Iliana shook her head and sat beside him, taking his hands in between her own. When she tentatively smiled and kissed his knuckles, Aerin felt something in his chest ease.

“It’s Ristridin,” she said softly, squeezing his fingers comfortingly as his heart stuttered to a halt once more. “He’s alive.”


	28. Into the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party ventures into the Cave.

Nine of the Thirteen survived the skirmish in the poison fields. Two died from their wounds in the days that followed, leaving only seven left―Ristridin and six others. Seven left, that was more than half, but only because men could not be dealt in halves. Aerin supposed the losses could have been worse. But they could have been better. If Aerin had stayed behind, if the Thirteen had never come looking for him… No one had to die.

When Aerin had arrived in the sickbay, only a knight named Parrish was still conscious. Parrish had only stayed conscious long enough to relay how their numbers came to be and how they wandered the poison fields, then the charred forest―without food or water―for days. They were all weak and injured, on the brink of death when Killian and his scouts found them at the southernmost border of the upper forest. The moment Parrish had finished sharing all of this, Borte had given him a sleeping draught that worked almost immediately and threatened Aerin that if he tried to wake any of them prematurely, she would put him to sleep as well.

A few healers silently milled about the room, checking the vitals of the recovered knights as Aerin sat rigidly beside Ristridin’s cot, his eyes never leaving the prone form of his father’s Captain. This was the man that had protected him and his family for as long as Aerin could remember. Ristridin had never been warm, but he had always been  _ there _ . That was certainly more than he could say about some other members of his immediate family. This was the man that had hauled Aerin up when he found him, bruised and sniveling on the ground after Baldur had his fun. This was the man who had dusted him off, tilted his chin up with a gauntleted hand, and righted his crown, every single time.

_ Wipe your tears, boy, and keep your head up,  _ Ristridin would order him.  _ You are a prince of Morella. You do not yield. _

This was the man who dressed in rags to accompany him into the Nooks and Crannies, who had kept their excursions a secret, who had claimed to know his heart, and who had been  _ right. _

Captain Ristridan was the only one Aerin felt he had truly disappointed when he fell to the Shadow.

“He’s going to be okay, Aerin,” Iliana reassured him, her fingers idly combing through the hair at the nape of his neck. She sat beside him, one ankle balanced atop the other knee, her foot bouncing anxiously as if she had too much pent up energy to sit still for so long. Aerin had a feeling that she was only here for his benefit. Once, he had mocked her loyalty, compared to that of a dog, but now he was forever grateful for it.

“I just want to talk to him,” Aerin mumbled, leaning forward to brace his forearms on his thighs. “To tell him thank you. For everything.” And he truly meant everything. Not just what the Captain had done in the poison fields. “And I want him to know that choice he made, the men he lost… it wasn’t for nothing. We’re going to find the Old Gods.”

“Whether we find them or not, his choice would not have been for nothing,” Iliana said softly, “as long as you lived. That was why he chose to protect us.”

He felt her gaze on him, warm and full of tender affection. He did not think he could stand to look at her right now, or else he would be washed, completely lost in her tide. He needed to be strong right now, to face the sleeping man before him and whatever secrets lay hidden in the Cave, and Iliana had a way of making him feel weak. Or strong. It really depended on the hour. 

Aerin was about to give in, to fold himself into her arms and hide until he felt brave enough to face whatever came next, when the door to the infirmary creaked open. Imtura stood in the doorway, her face as solemn as Aerin had ever seen it.

“Everyone is ready,” she said with more gentleness than Aerin thought the orc captain could muster. “We’re just waiting on you to take off.”

Aerin’s lips pulled into a frown as he looked between Imtura and Ristridin, who had not so much as moved a muscle in the few hours Aerin had been watching over him.

“Aerin?” Iliana prompted, her fingers brushing the back of his neck although she made no move to stand. It was as if she was waiting for his cue. Aerin knew then that if he decided he wanted to wait here a little longer, she would allow it. But he knew she was anxious to move on, to find these gods and Kade. There was an air of nervous energy about her this morning, a renewed sense of urgency. He knew without her having to say that it had to do with her most recent dream, which she had told him about on their walk from the barracks to the infirmary. And if her dream was any indication, they truly could not afford to wait any longer.

Aerin drew in a deep breath and nodded. “Let’s go.”

They were about a third of the way to the door when a deep cough sounded behind him. Aerin froze, not even daring to hope. With his heart in his throat, he turned.

Ristridin’s chest rose and fell more dramatically, the rhythm strong and steady. His dark brown eyes were open and lazily roaming about the ceiling, hazy with exhaustion and the after-effects of whatever magic Borte had worked on him.

Aerin could not bring himself to take another step toward the door, even though he knew he had to. It was time to go. His legs would not move.

_ He’s awake. He’s alive. He’s okay. _

Iliana glanced between Aerin and Imtura, her brow knitting together. Then she waved toward Imtura as if to say,  _ We’ll be right there,  _ before turning back to Aerin and slipped her hand into his. “I’ll stall for time,” she told him, smoothing back some of his hair to kiss his temple. “I can probably give you a few minutes.”

Aerin squeezed her hand appreciatively, hoping that small gesture conveyed all of the gratitude he felt for her and then some. “Thank you.”

Iliana’s fingers brushed his shoulder, one last gentle touch before she left and slipped out the door. Aerin could hear the distant babble of voices outside before the door swung shut and he forced himself to face the Captain.

“So it’s all real,” Ristridin mumbled, his gaze roaming around the room, eyes lingering on the winged healers before finally coming to rest upon Aerin. “I thought for certain that all those months in that cell had scrambled your brain, boy.”

Aerin’s responding laugh sounded more like a hoarse croak. He sat back down, this time on the edge of Ristridin’s cot. “I’m still not entirely sure that they haven’t.”

Ristridin’s head lolled to the side and he gave Aerin a look of appraisal. “You find those Old Gods yet?”

“Soon,” Aerin replied, smiling softly even as the backs of his eyes prickled. “Today, actually. We’re leaving now to go find them.”  _ Hopefully. _

“Light preserve us,” Ristridin muttered, closing his eyes as he settled more deeply into the pillows. “I am too old for this war.”

Aerin tutted, only because it was something he thought Iliana might do to alleviate the stress in his chest. “You’re barely fifty, Captain. You still have some fight in you.”

“I’m almost  _ sixty, _ boy,” Ristridin replied, and despite everything, Aerin found himself smiling. At that, the Captain’s dark brows rose. “I don’t think I’ve seen you do that in over a year. Smile. At least not genuinely. You look better, Prince Aerin. More alive.” 

Aerin’s smile dimmed and his gaze fell to his lap. “Sometimes, I feel like I don’t deserve this,” he confessed, waving his hand around the room. “I feel like I should be back in that cell, paying for what I did to Baldur. Not out here, seeing what I once only could have ever dreamed of seeing.”

Ristridin’s brows furrowed. “You are,” he said sternly but not harshly, his voice carrying the same authority it always did whenever he addressed his men. “Every day since then you have paid, and you will continue to do so for the rest of your life, whether you are in that cell or not. Not because someone is punishing you, but because you’ve always been the type to hold yourself accountable. And more than that,” he added, his gaze scrutinizing Aerin from head to do. “You’re doing more good out here than you were in those dungeons.”

Aerin pursed his lips. He did not know what to make of that, did not know how to express how good it felt to hear those words―words he did not know he even needed until now―from the man he respected so much. It felt like a sentence and a pardon, all in one. “So you believe us, then?” he asked instead. “About the Old Gods? The Empire of Ash?”

Ristridin let out a bark of laughter that was immediately followed by a wheeze and a wince. “When you started spewing that nonsense back in the fields, I thought you’d gone mad. But seeing all of this… winged men I’d only ever heard about in stories… If all of this is real, then why not that? What’s one more drop in the pool of insanity?”

Aerin huffed a laugh, even as his chest tightened. “So, if you didn’t believe me then, then why did you let us go?”

His friends had all offered their explanations, but he had to know, had to hear it straight from the Captain’s mouth before he could truly allow himself to believe―to  _ hope _ ―that there were people outside of the party who still thought he was capable of doing good, of changing.

“I’m not a dreamer, boy. You know that.” Ristridin sighed, turning his gaze away to study to infirmary once more, those dark irises glittering with begrudging wonder as they skimmed over the winged healers. He took a deep breath, then gave Aerin another look of appraisal as he shrugged―Ristridin was not the kind of man who simply  _ shrugged. _ “But maybe a part of me wanted to believe that you were still that same, bright-eyed boy I watched grow up, who wanted nothing more than the best for his kingdom.”

Aerin felt his breath catch in his throat. His fingers curled into his palm as he breathed, “Am I?”

Ristridin looked at him for a long moment, then shook his head. “No.”

Aerin felt something crack in his chest, but Ristridin was not done.

“Looking at you now, Aerin,” he continued, slowly dragging himself up to sit against the pillows. “Knowing what you have done, seeing how far you have come… I don’t see the prince I once knew.”

Aerin hung his head, his gaze falling to his hands, clenched in his lap.

“I see a king.”

Aerin felt the air leave his lungs as he snapped his head up. “What?”

“Maybe I never really knew the real you, Aerin,” Ristridin said slowly, his expression full of pride―not for himself, Aerin realized, but for  _ him.  _

_ You did,  _ he wanted to say.  _ You were the only one who did.  _

“But the man I found in the poison fields,” Ristridin continued, “who faced me and my Thirteen without fear, who had friends that were ready to fight for him, who was prepared to offer himself up in exchange for their freedom…” He shook his head, jaw set in determination. “I had never seen that man before, but I would follow him into battle any day.”

Aerin did not think he was breathing. His blood was loud in his ears, his heart hurling itself against the confines of his chest. “Captain…”

“The day you killed Baldur, you broke my trust, Aerin,” Ristridin stated, his gaze hard. “But I broke yours first, every time I let that boy tear you down. I told myself that it would make you stronger, that it would help you become someone who could put the next king in check once you found your footing. Maybe it worked and maybe it didn’t. Either way, I should have done more. We all should have.”

Aerin shook his head, his voice strained. “You couldn’t have―the Dreadlord―”

“You were just a child. We should have done something,” Ristridin interjected, and in his eyes, Aerin saw the apology he never knew he had needed. “But that’s in the past now. You’re not a boy, you’re a man. One that knows the weight of his actions and is strong enough to carry them. You may not see it yet, and perhaps it is not clear to all, but I know your heart, Aerin, and I can see that you are becoming everything you wanted Baldur to be, everything you wanted your father to be and more.”

Aerin felt as if he had been speared through the heart. “Ristridin, I don’t deserve―”

“Life isn’t about what we deserve.” Ristridin reached over the side of the bed and picked up his sheathed sword. “You might not be the king Morella wants right now, but you are the one they need, especially if danger is coming. By law and by decree, you are still your father’s heir―”

“He should have denounced me by now.” The words were out of Aerin’s mouth before he could stop them. “The city guard wanted my head in the heartoak forest.”

“He hasn’t,” Ristridin said firmly. “And he won’t. Your father does not hate you, Aerin. Your father sent us after you because he just wanted you home. He’s always had hope to bring you back to his side, has always hoped that something could happen that would make you worthy of his crown. Saving the realm might very well be the thing that does it.”

“You are still his heir,” Ristridin repeated. “And if war is coming, it is you who I will follow into battle. After the skirmish in the fields, my men continued to search for you. Not to take you back to your father, but for this.” 

There was a slight tremor in his hands as he slid his sword free of its scabbard and laid it across his lap. It gleamed in the sunlight, finely crafted, hilt inlaid with gold filigree. Along the flat of the blade, in delicately scripted letters was the inscription,  _ Honor My Sword, Truth My Shield. _

“You have my sword, Aerin,” he said resolutely. “For this day and every day that is to come. If darkness is to fall across our realm, I will face it with you as my true king. I swear it, by the Old Gods and the New.”

“Captain,” Aerin breathed, his throat tight with emotion and eyes blurring. He did not deserve this, could not accept this. 

Ristridin reached out and nudged the bottom of Aerin’s chin with his gauntleted hand. “Wipe your tears, Aerin, and keep your head up. You are the last prince of Morella, heir to the throne. You do not yield.”

Aerin blinked back his tears and opened his mouth. For the first few tries, no sounds came out. But at last, he managed a hoarse, “Thank you. You don’t know what this means.”

“Don’t thank me. Just make me proud.”

Before Aerin could respond, the door to the infirmary swung open. He turned as Iliana poked her head in, her face grave and apologetic. He did not know what expression he bore―he hoped he hadn’t actually started crying―but Iliana’s brows knitted.

“It’s time to go, Aerin,” she said softly, her emerald gaze flicking between him and the Captain.

“I…” Aerin swallowed, reluctant to leave Ristridin’s side so soon. “Just give me a moment. I’ll be right out.”

Iliana frowned, concern etched into every line of her face. But at last, she nodded and closed the door once more.

“That girl almost shot my head off,” Ristridin stated when Iliana was gone once more.

Aerin allowed himself a smug smile. “If she wanted to, she would have.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Ristridin huffed, gazing out the window at the rainforest beyond. “She wears your ring.”

Aerin felt his cheeks warm.  _ He noticed?  _ his subconscious trilled shrilly. Then,  _ Of course, he noticed.  _ Aerin forced himself to nod, setting his bashfulness aside. “She is.”

“Hm,” was all Ristridin said. A wise decision. Aerin would probably burn up if they pursued that line of conversation any further, the memories of last night still fresh in his mind. 

Ristridin tore his gaze away from the scenery to fix Aerin with a stern look. “You can still make things right. These are just your first steps to building the kingdom you’d always dreamed of. Continue to do right by your people, don’t lose sight of your goals, and the rest will fall into place. There are more people than you think who are willing to follow you. You just have to reach out.”

Aerin frowned at that.  _ What did that mean? _ Somehow, he had a feeling that Ristridin was testing him, giving him his first trial to prove that he would make a good king. Aerin still had difficulty processing that. Him, the next Morellian king. His father had not denounced him. No, instead, Arlan hoped Aerin would succeed him.

_ Insanity. Absolute insanity.  _ Aerin shook his head. He needed time to process this, but right now, he had to leave.

“We will talk about this later,” he told Ristridin, forcing himself to stand. He retrieved Iliana’s old sword from where he had set it against the wall and was about to refasten it to his belt when Ristridin stopped him.

“Not that old thing,” he scoffed, sheathing his blade and holding it out like an offering. “Take this. It was your father’s gift to me when I became Captain of the Royal Guard. It will protect you better than that piece of junk.”

Aerin wanted to protest that Iliana’s sword was not a piece of junk, but he understood the meaning behind this gesture. A sword given by his father, the Valleros king, to his Captain of the Guard, who now gave it to Aerin, the last Valleros prince.  _ Symbols have power. _

He supposed it was about time that he had his own relic, a piece of his own legacy to remake anew. It was time to stop borrowing someone else’s. Aerin took the sword and bowed his head. “Thank you.”

“Find those Old Gods, Aerin,” Ristridin told him as Aerin strode for the door. “Our kingdom depends on it.”

Aerin gripped the hilt of his new blade tighter, his jaw stiff as he replied, “I will.”

He had to.

* * *

“This is it?” Imtura asked, clearly unimpressed as they touched down upon a blanket of lush grass, right before the entrance to the Cave, and Morrigan gently set her on her feet.

Iliana noted―not for the first time that afternoon―that Morrigan did not  _ look _ particularly strong, but she had carried Imtura all the way from the Aerie with ease, a feat that Iliana and Tyril could not even accomplish together. Iliana still remembered the time they had tried. It had occurred during one of the long nights of revelry that followed King Arlan’s Ceremony of Champions, before everyone had returned home. She could not remember the details of why she and Tyril had tried to carry Imtura―she had been far too drunk for that―only that it must have been part of a dare and had resulted in a few broken floorboards when they dropped the orc captain on the tavern floor.

Killian’s wings rustled as if he didn’t understand her confusion. “Of course it is. Can’t you feel it?”

Imtura frowned. “Feel what?”

“I can,” Iliana breathed as Killian set her down. She gazed at the Cave entrance, a dark cavity that was just as wide as Killian’s wingspan, embedded in the side of a wall of dark volcanic rock that was covered in thick, green moss. 

Before Iliana could elaborate, Nia touched down beside her and looked around in bright-eyed wonder. She pulled Threep from her satchel, cradling him in one arm as she raised the other, twisted her hand in the air. “The Light… it’s everywhere. It’s stronger. It feels… alive.”

Iliana nodded in agreement. The magic that swirled around them, it felt… curious. Like a dog sniffing out a stranger. Although that wasn’t quite it. Iliana could not explain it, this strange feeling in her bones that told her this was exactly where she was supposed to be. 

_ Where the Veil is thinnest, magic is more potent. Volatile. _

But why here? Was it a coincidence that this… this Veil was thinnest where the Old Gods were rumored to found?

Iliana frowned, gazing at their surroundings. The air was cooler here, too. They were still in Rysoth, still in the rainforest. Sort of. She supposed they were on the outskirts. The trees here were thinner, smaller, and mist swirled along the ground.

Tyril landed next, a frown already on his lips as he studied the Cave entrance. He snapped his fingers and a burst of blue fire sparked to life in his hand, so bright and startling, he flinched back, shaking his hand until the flames dissipated. His frown deepened even further. “Hmph.”

“Can’t say I like the sound of that,” Imtura muttered, her hands skimming over the tops of her hand axes and hammer, all of which were fit snugly in her belt.

“Scared, orc?” Morrigan teased, tugging on one of Imtura’s braids as she smiled. “If you want, I can hold your hand.”

Imtura stilled, lifting her brows as she looked up from her weapons, and for a moment, Iliana thought she might snap at the other woman. But then she grinned and put her hands on her hips. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Morrigan rolled her eyes and smirked as Mal landed next, then Aerin, who trailed his fingers along the back of her elbow in greeting. The slightest of touches, but it was enough to ground her.

Iliana shook her head, drawing herself out of her thoughts and glanced between her companions as she took silent stock of her inventory. Gauntlet of Pain, Bow of Gal’dariel, Blade of Sol, and now, her short sword. It was not nearly as nice as the Blade of Sol, or as well balanced, but she had to admit it felt kind of nice to have the old thing back. She’d had it for so many years now, more than half of her life. Getting it back felt like rediscovering a limb she didn’t know she was missing.

“So.” Iliana cleared her throat, resting her palm atop the smooth, worn pommel of her short sword. “Do we just go in?”

“No point in waiting,” Tyril said, pulling Borte’s map from the folds of his clothing even though Iliana knew he had the damn thing memorized by now. “I will lead.”

“Take these. Spare your Light,” Killian told them, pulling three torches from his pack and handing them out to Tyril, Nia, and Aerin. 

“And this,” Morrigan added as she tossed a firestarter to Imtura. She handed Iliana a strange bundle of twigs and blue flowers bound by a braided vine. “One of Borte’s tricks. Light it up when you’re done. We’ll see your signal and come back for you.”

“Uh…” Iliana held the bundle of twigs gingerly between her fingers as if it might explode at any given moment. Allies or no, Borte always made her a little bit wary. “What is it?”

“Just a smoke signal,” Morrigan replied, taking the bundle and wedging it between Iliana’s belt and her hip. “Plume of blue smoke. Our watchers will see it.”

Reflexively, a shiver dripped down Iliana’s spine at that.  _ I will see you soon, Watcher. _

Watcher… was that her? Another revolting pet name like  _ little star? _ Or was it someone else?

Iliana shook off the chill and rolled her shoulders. “Alright. Just making sure it doesn’t kill us. I have a feeling we’ll find enough trouble in there,” she said, nodding her chin toward the Cave. She glanced at her companions, steeling her resolve. The Old Gods were somewhere in there, she could feel it. And with any luck, so was Kade. It was time to bring him home. 

“Ready?” she asked.

“No,” Mal replied, anxiously bouncing from one foot to the next as he flexed his gloved fingers. In a flash, there was a small blade in his hand. Another flash and it was gone. When he caught Iliana’s gaze, he gave her a small smile. “But let’s do this anyway.”

_ Really? The cocky rogue who always meets danger with a smile is afraid? _

_ Yeah, well, that’s why I’m always smiling. It’s because I’m always a little afraid. _

Iliana met his smile with one of her own. Maybe she was always a little afraid, too.

“Alright,” she said when everyone else nodded in agreement. Iliana turned to Tyril and waved her hand. “Lead the way.”

Immediately, Iliana could tell that this cave was not a natural vent. Not anymore, at least. A couple dozen yards into the Cave, they reached the first intersection of tunnels. The one Tyril led them down gradually changed shape, the curved walls and ceiling of the tunnel flattening out so that the vent resembled a hallway rather than a natural cavern. The hallway-like appearance made Iliana feel like they truly were in some sort of maze now. Glancing at Borte’s map, which was clutched tightly in Tyril’s hand, she supposed they were.  _ A labyrinth. _

But the shape of the tunnels were the least concerning features of the Cave. As they traipsed through the tunnels, the ground itself changed. It went from coarse black rock to polished cobblestone, then to well-worn sandstone. It quickly became apparent that the change in flooring usually indicated the presence of some sort of trap―falling blades triggered by a tripwire, false tiles that crumbled underfoot, and so on―all of which had already been disabled. It reminded Iliana a lot of the absolute deathtrap of a corridor that led to the dungeons of the Dreadlord’s palace, although there was considerably less lava. Thankfully.

Iliana was just starting to think that this whole trek through the Cave wasn’t so bad when the tunnel they were in suddenly widened, spitting them out into a massive cavern.

“Aw hells, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Mal muttered, his torch bobbing as he let out an exasperated sigh and slowed to a halt behind Tyril. Iliana quickly saw the cause of his dismay―it was rather hard to miss. 

A ravine spanned the width of the cavern, a wide seam of darkness that split the cavern in two. On the other side of the cleft, the tunnel continued, burrowing into the opposite wall of the cavern. And between the two edges of the chasm stretched a rickety rope bridge that swayed gently from side to side.

Nia came to a stop beside Iliana and frowned as she anxiously wrung her hands together. “This looks… safe.”

It most certainly did not.

“When d’you think was the last time this old thing was used?” Iliana asked, peering over the edge of the chasm. She could not even see the bottom of the ravine, so she had no doubt a fall from here would be deadly. Carefully, she pressed her foot down on the first wooden plank of the bridge. It held, but Iliana was no less discomforted by the appearance of the bridge.

“If Kade came this way,” Aerin said, glancing at Iliana to gauge her reaction, “a couple of days ago. But who knows.”

“Well.” Iliana glanced over the edge of the bridge and swallowed. “It looks stable enough.”

“Famous last words,” Mal muttered and Iliana shot him a glare.

“I’ll go first” she decided, readjusting her bow on her back before laying her hand atop the length of rope that served as a makeshift handrail. But before Iliana could start across the bridge, she was stopped by a hand on her elbow.

“Maybe I should go first,” Aerin said when she turned to face him. His eyes were trained on the bridge as it swayed from side to side, his lips pressed into a grim line. “Make sure it’s stable.”

Iliana raised a brow. Oh, he was sweet. She recognized the concern etched into his features―she knew the feeling all too well. It was the reason why she had volunteered to go first. Over his shoulder, she met Nia’s knowing gaze.

Iliana shook her head and patted Aerin’s hand once before removing it from her arm. She conjured an Orb of Light in her palm to illuminate her way once she was no longer within range of the torches. “Don’t fuss. I’ll be just fine.”

Iliana saw the reproach in his eyes, but before Aerin could protest, she turned and started across the bridge. Her stomach swooped as the bridge first began to bounce and sway, but it held. There was a heart-stopping moment at the center of the ravine when the bridge dipped, the rope creaking, but even then, it remained stable. 

She had just begun to think that she was practically in the clear when there was a loud  _ snap! _ and then her right foot was no longer on a wooden plank, but falling through the space where it had once been. The Orb of Light winked out in her palm and Iliana let out a cry of alarm as she tumbled forward, chin striking the surface of another set of planks, the pain of the impact smothered by her shock.

“Iliana!”

Iliana grunted, shoving herself up to her elbows as the bridge rocked beneath her weight. She supposed it was a good thing she didn’t have one of the torches, or she probably would have just lit the bridge on fire. Between the gaps in the planks, she saw the endless depths of the chasm. Gods above, that was a wicked drop. She decided to stop looking down.

Iliana glanced back over her shoulder to see all of her friends staring at her with wide eyes. Aerin stood at the edge of the bridge, looking as if he was about to hurl himself down the damned thing to get to her side.

“I’m fine,” she announced as she gripped the sides of the bridge and pulled herself to her feet, her voice echoing throughout the cavern. “Just… watch your step.”

“Gods’ sake,” someone muttered.

Twenty paces more, and Iliana was on the other side. She took a deep breath, quelling the slight tremor in her legs, before she turned and offered a thumbs up. “It’s all good. No more than two at a time, though. I wouldn’t trust it that much.”

As expected, Aerin was the first to cross next, a disapproving frown on his lips. When he was about halfway across, Nia stepped onto the bridge, Threep flying by her side.

The moment Aerin reached her, he tilted her face up with his fingers, tutting when his gaze fell across the bruise that had begun to bloom on the underside of her chin. “I told you to let me go first.”

“And I told you that I would be fine,” she countered, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She knew she would have been just as upset if he’d been the one to fall.

His thumb brushed over the edge of her jaw. “You call that fine?”

Iliana huffed, tilting her head to shake off his grip. “Better than fine, actually.” When Aerin’s eyes narrowed, she flicked his shoulder. “I’m fine, Aerin. You should have seen me when I was a kid. I was getting bruised up all the time hopping fences and falling out of trees.”

Aerin levelled her with a flat stare. “Somehow, knowing that only makes me feel fortunate that I did not know you when we were younger.”

Iliana met his glare with an arched brow. “Are you sure?” she asked, tilting her head and drawing his gaze to the curve of her neck as she laid her hand over his chest. “We could have had so much fun.”

Aerin looked at once exasperated and amused by her, although she could have sworn his heart fluttered beneath her palm. He shook his head, mouth curving into a private smile, and for a moment, Iliana thought he might kiss her.

But then he covered her hand with his own and peeled it away from his chest. “Just be careful,” he said, squeezing her fingers for emphasis.

“Fine,” Iliana sighed, her gaze flicking over Aerin’s shoulder as Nia joined them on their side, Tyril and Mal not far behind. 

Miraculously, the bridge held them all and, after Iliana’s small slip up, subjected no one else to peril. When Imtura, the last person in line, made it across the bridge, she turned and flipped the strip of rope and wood off, slightly breathless. “I hated that.”

“Since when are you afraid of heights, Immy?” Mal teased even as he gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder.

“Not heights,” she replied, glowering slightly at that nickname as she flexed her fingers, popping joints to relieve some of her tension. “Weigh as much as I do, pipsqueak, and you’ll see why I’m not a fan of that bridge.”

Mal’s brows drew together and he opened his mouth to fire back, but then, thinking better of it, he shrugged. “That’s fair.”

With Tyril in the lead once more, they continued deeper into the Cave, passing another chamber with a disabled trap―a hallway of poison darts that evidently ran out of darts. Before long, they reached a circular cavern and Tyril pulled them all to a stop before they could enter. Peering around him, Iliana saw that the volcanic floor had given way to wood panels and that seven other tunnels branched off from the cavern.

“Which one is ours?” Iliana asked. 

“Third from the right,” Tyril answered, although he sounded distracted, his frown evident in the firelight. When Iliana tore her gaze from the chamber, she saw that he was staring at the ground.

“That’s odd,” he murmured, dragging the toe of his boot along the edge where volcanic rock gave way to a strange, silvery wood.

“In case you didn’t notice, elf boy,” Mal muttered, lifting his torch a little higher to better illuminate the chamber. “Everything about this place is odd. What, are you planning on redoing the floors of your fancy house in Undermount?”

Tyril cut him a scathing look before refocusing his attention on the ground. “The wood… it’s―”

“Dorim wood,” Aerin breathed, crouching down and brushing his fingertips over the planks. The wood appeared silvery in the firelight, laced through with pale, spiraling patterns that looked a lot like scar tissue. “I recognize the swirling patterns of the grain. There’s a petrified piece of it in the palace archives. But I thought that there hasn’t been one of those trees in centuries.”

“There hasn’t,” Threep replied, shaking his head, eyes wary but thoughtful. “The last Dorim forest was burned long before even Xaius’s reign.”

Iliana’s brows rose, her attention snagging on that name. “Xaius? Like  _ the _ Xaius from the Battle of Cragheart?”

Threep nodded. “The very same.”

Iliana let out a long breath. “That was over two thousand years ago,” she mumbled, gazing at the floor with renewed interest. “So this cave… it really is that old.”

“It makes me wonder,” Tyril mused, gazing around the chamber, “who exactly constructed this Cave. Elves? Someone from the Avian Kingdom? Dwarves? Or something older?”

Iliana chewed her lip as she mulled this over. Something Morrigan said the other day was tugging at the corner over her mind.

_ It could have been my Avian ancestors, trying to protect the Old Gods’ sanctuary. Or even the gods themselves. But… some people think it was _ ―

“The old riders,” Iliana murmured, her brows drawing together as she felt a seed of certainty grow in her gut. “They could have done this.”

She felt Aerin’s eyes on her, his searching gaze. “But why? Why would they go through all of this effort? This place was already hard enough to find, even with those directions. At this point, it’s just excessive.”

“Maybe they just wanted to be extra certain that random travellers didn’t find the sanctuary,” Nia offered, reaching up to scratch the back of Threep’s neck. “All of this is just a precaution.”

“I still don’t really understand why they want to keep these gods a secret anyway,” Imtura said, crossing her arms across her chest. “Why not turn it into a temple or something that people could visit? Seems like something you religious folks would like.”

“Respect, maybe?” Nia shrugged. “Maybe the gods preferred solitude.”

“Well, they certainly have it way out here,” Iliana muttered beneath her breath, studying the chamber they still had yet to cross. There were thick wooden beams wedged between the floor and the ceiling―obviously not part of the room’s original construction, although it was still unclear as to what purpose they served.

“If you ask me, I think it’s because they wanted to conserve power,” Mal stated darkly, even though no one asked. “They had their stint with the gods and when it ended, for whatever reason that may be, they didn’t want anyone else to find them, the greedy bastards. They didn’t want anyone else to ever be as great as they were.”

“Of course you would think that. You think everyone is a greedy bastard,” Imtura remarked, rolling her eyes. They were bright in the firelight, pools of molten gold. Iliana tried hard not to think of the Emperor’s. She reminded herself that in all the time she knew her, Imtura’s eyes had only ever been warm, sometimes fiery with anger, but never cold and lifeless like the Ash ruler’s. 

“That’s because most people  _ are _ greedy bastards,” Mal replied, his lips twisting into a scowl.

“You sure you’re not projecting, thief?”

“The Khagan said the Old Gods picked their riders,” Aerin said quickly, before Mal and Imtura could continue their bickering. “She said they haven’t picked one in millennia and likely never will because of how badly their magic was abused. Perhaps whoever built this wanted to protect the gods from being exploited.”

Mal huffed. “What kind of gods need protection from a bunch of mortals? If the gods  _ were  _ being exploited, why wouldn’t they just stop handing over their magic? Kill their riders? And if the riders were exploiting them, then why would they go through all of this effort to help them hide?”

Aerin opened and closed his mouth, then shrugged, at a loss. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Honestly, none of this really makes any sense to me.”

“Hells, if even the palace rat doesn’t know what’s going on, then we’re all screwed,” Imtura grumbled and a small part of Iliana was inclined to agree. Just what exactly were they up against? Even if they did find the Old Gods today, there was no way to tell how that encounter would go. 

_What if they refuse to join the war? What if they turn on us?_ _Wouldn’t that make for a funny story,_ Iliana’s subconscious remarked dryly. _We come all this way just to get killed by the very thing we thought would save us._

“Well, we’re not going to find any answers by standing around here,” Mal stated, shifting his attention to Tyril as he jutted his chin toward the chamber in front of them. “What’s this room supposed to be, elf boy?”

Tyril’s lips quirked down, the only indication he gave that he did not appreciate Mal’s tone as he referenced Borte’s map once more. His frown only deepened. “It says ‘moving ceiling.’ Triggered by pressure plates. But it’s supposed to be inactive.”

Iliana’s stomach twisted. Well. That certainly explained the beams.

“Only one way to find out,” Mal said with a shrug. Then, before anyone could stop him, he grabbed a handful of dark pebbles from the ground, and flung them across the wooden panels.

Tyril made a squawking noise of dismay. “Hey!”

There was a series of soft  _ shinks! _ as several of the wooden panels sank into the floor.  _ Pressure plates. _

A few moments passed in tense silence, as the group waited with bated breath for the ceiling to start lowering, but nothing happened. After a few more moments passed, the sunken panels rose, sliding back into position.

Mal dusted his palms off on his trousers and settled his hands on his hips, satisfied. “Well. it appears we have our answer.”

Tyril glared at him. “What would we have done if you triggered that trap?”

“Uh, gone around?” Mal proposed, pointing at Borte’s map to one of the many branching passageways they had passed earlier. He rolled his eyes as he began to saunter across the room. “If it  _ had  _ gone off when I threw the pebbles, it sure as hells would have gone off when we walked through and we would have been squashed like bugs.”

“You could have waited for Iliana or myself to detect the pressure plates,” Tyril snapped as he followed. “Then we could have gone around them. There’s a reason I picked this exact path…”

Iliana sighed and shook her head as she started across the room, doing her best to tune out their bickering. The rest of her friends followed suit―Nia, Aerin, and finally, Imtura―the pressure plates harmlessly sinking beneath their feet.

Iliana was about two-thirds of the way across the room when Mal and Tyril reached the other side, both of them pausing where the wooden panels once again gave way to volcanic rock.

“See,” Mal was saying, waving a hand back toward the others. “It all worked out fine, so really, your badgering is pointless―”

“It is  _ not _ pointless,” Tyril snapped as he let out a long-suffering sigh and folded his arms, leaning his weight against the cave wall. “We’ve come so far and we can’t afford to make mistakes. We need to think carefully before proceeding―”

_ Shink! _

Tyril abruptly cut himself off as a hidden panel in the cave wall―a square of jagged dark stone barely distinguishable from the rest of the wall―sunk beneath his weight. Instantly, everyone froze as Tyril’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open. “Oh.”

Tyril scrambled away from the wall as a grating noise sounded from above, like stones being ground together. Dust and small particles of rock rained down on everyone who was still passing through the wooden section of the passage as the ceiling began to lower. The wooden beams creaked as the weight of the moving ceiling bore down on them, but miraculously, they held. The grinding sound stopped.

For a moment, everyone simply stared at the ceiling in disbelief. Mal let out a startled laugh of relief. “Thank the gods for those―”

There was an earsplitting  _ crack!  _ like the wicked snap of lighting or the sound of two boulders crashing together, and then dark fractures spiderwebbed across the wooden beams. One beam buckled and the ceiling dropped several inches, stone screeching against stone, and the grinding sound started up once more.

A string of foul words spewed from Iliana’s mouth as Imtura bellowed,  _ “MOVE!” _

Iliana hurled herself toward the nearest tunnel out of the chamber, the sound of her friend’s footsteps echoing all around her. The moment she crossed from the wooden panels to the dark rock, Iliana looked back in time to see Nia, Aerin, and Imtura exit the wooden chamber through other tunnels just as the last few beams splintered to pieces. The moment the beams were broken, the ceiling swiftly fell, slamming into the ground with a deafening boom and plunging into darkness. Iliana stumbled into the wall as the ground shuddered beneath her feet and a cloud of dust billowed through the tunnel.

The silence that followed was deafening. Iliana sneezed, the dust of the Cave irritating her sinuses as she pushed away from the wall and conjured an Orb of Light, burning away the darkness. Her heart sank. She was alone.

Which tunnel had she gone through? How far was it from Mal and Tyril’s? Which one had Aerin gone through? And Nia and Imtura? Would they ever intersect? Was she trapped?

Iliana inhaled sharply, the hairs on her arms standing on end as she felt a puff of cool air on the back of her neck, as if someone had just breathed down her neck. As if on its own accord, Iliana’s Light burned even brighter in her hands. She whirled, half expecting to see someone standing right behind her, leering over her shoulder, but there was nothing. Only an empty tunnel.

Iliana’s heart hammered in her chest as she swallowed hard, unable to shake the feeling that someone or  _ something  _ was still there. She shivered as another cool breeze swept over her, stirring her hair. But after a few moments, she realized that whatever presence was there with her wasn’t harmful. In fact, it felt almost benign. Familiar.

Iliana took a cautious step forward, moving away from the collapsed chamber and deeper into the Cave, and her Light grew.

_ Magic. _

Iliana stood up straighter, her resolve growing. Somehow, she knew she was in the right place, that the Light would guide her. Iliana took a deep breath, then continued forward.

  
  



	29. The Crucible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What lies at the heart of the Cave?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: blood and violence

_ Great,  _ Aerin thought as he coughed, waving away a cloud of dust, and stared at the solid wall of rock that slammed into place behind him, blocking his way out and separating him from the others, from Iliana.  _ This is great. _

Aerin’s torchlight wavered, throwing his flickering shadow against the wall. He supposed that he should consider himself lucky for at least having a source of light to illuminate the tunnel he had hurled himself down. He had no doubt that without it, he would stumble into a trap and he could forget all about his promises to Ristridin to save their kingdom.

Frowning, Aerin turned away from the collapsed cavern and faced the tunnel. It stretched before him, a gaping mouth of darkness. “Iliana?” he called. “Nia? Anyone?”

No response.  _ Fantastic. _

Aerin’s frown only deepened as he dusted off his clothes and did a quick inventory check of what few belongings he had brought with him. Ristridin’s sword, a waterskin, and a torch. All things considered, he was horribly underprepared. For what, he had no clue. Left with no other choice, Aerin hefted up his torch a little higher, then pressed on.

Aerin ran into two dead ends before finding what he hoped was the correct passageway. He assumed it was because after what must have been at least a quarter of an hour, he reached another chamber.

It was similar to the last room with the wooden panels in that it was a circular shaped chamber with several branching passageways―nine, by Aerin’s count. Ten including the one he came from. Unlike the other rooms, the ceiling was high, probably twice Iliana’s height, giving Aerin the strange feeling that he was standing at the bottom of a well. The floor was still made of volcanic rock, although it appeared to be sanded down and smoothed out. A circular divet was carved into the ground at the center of the room. Deep gouges flared out from the divet, each chiseled line leading to one of the ten tunnels, like the spokes of a wheel.

Aerin frowned. There was no way he could explore each of these tunnels―it would take too much time. He had already been separated from everyone else for too long. There had to be something here that told him which passage was the right one. He wished he had spent more time studying Borte’s map with Tyril. Then, he might have had an idea of what the hells this room was.

Before he entered the room, Aerin picked up a handful of pebbles, then tossed them toward the center of the room, just as he had seen Mal do. Nothing. So at least there were no pressure plates in the floor.

After lining up a small row of pebbles at the center of the tunnel he came from to mark it from the rest of the passages, Aerin cautiously crept toward the center of the room and turned in a slow circle, searching for any markers or clues that might tell him what to do or where to go. From his new vantage point at the center of the room, Aerin could see that there were more engravings on the walls: undulating lines that spanned across the tops of the tunnels like… like―

_ Waves,  _ Aerin realized. Suddenly, that feeling he had earlier about being at the bottom of a well intensified. Aerin shuddered, holding his torch higher to better view the carvings. As he did, the ring of light thrown by his torch skimmed the ceiling, revealing another inscription. It took Aerin a few moments to realize that the etchings were words, forming a phrase that was carved to form a perfect circle. The sentence ended where it began, forming a never-ending loop.

_ I flow with the river. _

Aerin frowned. The words were so high up and perfectly placed, there was no way they were simply ornamental. No, Aerin rationalized that they had to be inscribed for a reason―likely one that was linked to the secret of getting out of this room―which meant that the inscription had to be some sort of riddle. A puzzle. 

Aerin could certainly deal with that.

“ _ ‘I flow with the river,’ _ ” Aerin murmured to himself as he slowly walked around the room, starting in small circles that gradually broadened until he was wandering along the perimeter of the chamber. “What river?”

There was certainly no river around here. If there was, he would have at least been able to hear it, echoing off the walls. But the only thing he heard was his own breathing and the muffled sound of water sloshing in his waterskin. Aerin stilled, his eyes falling to the grooves in the floor as he settled his hand across the pouch at his waist.

There was no river. Unless, of course, he was supposed to create his own… 

Aerin crouched, the barest of ideas starting to form in his mind. He held out his torch and tilted his head, observing the slope of the ground. He didn’t have Iliana or Tyril’s eyesight and the light from the torch wavered, but from what he could see, the floor appeared to be level and did not seem to dip in any obvious direction.

_ Interesting. _

Aerin stood and cast another look around the room, taking in the details he already inspected several times over. The spoke-like engravings in the ground, the undulating waves, and  _ I flow with the river.  _ Two of those clues were water-related. Perhaps the third clue, the lines etched into the ground, had something to do with it too. Again, Aerin’s hand fell to the waterskin that was hooked onto his belt. 

Aerin strode toward the center of the room where all of the lines met in a circular-shaped divet and crouched down. The divet was a little deeper than the lines that led to it, about as deep as his third knuckle, and was so smooth, it appeared polished. Aerin unhooked the waterskin and pulled out the stopper. Maybe he was completely wrong, but it couldn’t hurt to try… 

Aerin poured his water into the divet and watched as it filled the cavity. When it reached the lip of the other lines, the water domed like the top of a muffin, held together by surface tension, then burst, flowing over the edge and into the other trench-like crevices.

Or at least, that was what it did at first. Aerin watched in awe as the water flowed into the ten grooves, then  _ stopped. _ As if it had a mind of its own, the water in the carved lines traveled inward, back toward the center of the room, then coalesced to stream down only one of the spokes.

_ I flow with the river. _

Aerin looked up, his gaze following the water’s path to the edge of the carved line, where it spilled over the edge and leaked into the waiting tunnel beyond―the  _ correct  _ tunnel. He had found his way through.

Aerin jammed the stopper back into the mouth of his waterskin, hooked it back on his belt, and stood. Then he gripped his torch tighter and strode into the darkness beyond.

Fortunately, Aerin did not come across any more chambers. In fact, he was just beginning to think that perhaps he had gone the wrong way, that the riddle in the last room had been a farce, when he heard voices.

His friends.  _ Iliana. _

Aerin began to run.

* * *

Iliana had started to consider herself blessed by the magic when she ran into a dead end.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered when the impermeable wall of black rock came into view. She fought back the urge to groan. The last fork in the tunnels was gods knew how far back. “This is where you’ve taken me?”

As if in response, the Light in her hand pulsed.

Great. That was helpful.

Iliana sighed to herself and was about to turn around, magical insistence or no, when her gaze snagged on a marking on the wall―some sort of painting―barely illuminated by the radius of her Orb of Light. Interest piqued, Iliana glanced back the way she came, then inched closer to the painting. 

The painting depicted a simple figure, humanoid in shape, with forks of lightning at its fingertips. It stood on some sort of outcropping of rock, a lush valley stretched out before it. But the figure’s attention was not on the valley, but rather on the great and terrible shape that soared above it.

Iliana’s breath hitched. “The dragon…”

She reached out, fingertips just barely skimming over the mottled crimson and black wings, the spine of spikes―

Iliana’s Light flared, and for a moment, she could have sworn the lightning at the painted figure’s hands crackled with bright blue and  _ very real _ energy. Iliana cried out in surprise, an electric shock singing down her arm as her Orb of Light dissipated.

Iliana stumbled back, but the moment her fingertips left the wall, light flooded the area and suddenly, she was somewhere else. She was  _ someone else. _

* * *

_ She raced through the forest, branches tearing at her arms, a distant heat singing her skin. Up ahead, she could see the burning horizon, a hellish landscape in the making. Broken twigs crunched underfoot as ashes rained down around her, coating everything in a thin layer of dust. _

_ She was close, just a little further. _

_ She plunged into the burning section of the forest, fire nipping at her heels. There was a deafening groan, then the creak of splintering wood. A burst of embers exploded through the air, stinging her skin as a massive Dorim tree snapped, throwing her into its shadow as it careened toward her. _

_ She waved her arm, the motion almost careless, an irritated hand swatting a fly, and a shock wave emitted from her fingertips. The falling tree was blasted back in the other direction and all of the flames within a twenty-foot radius were instantly extinguished, leaving nothing but dust and cold cinders behind, a crater of black in a world on fire. Still, she continued on. _

_ The ground shook with the force of a terrifying roar, but she only heard a cry of anguish and pain.  _

_ Before long she was there, at the heart of all of this fire and destruction, and at the epicenter, lay the source. _

_ “Mor!” she bellowed, magic carrying her voice over the raging inferno and crackling embers. “What is the meaning of this?” _

_ The dragon heaved, the belly of his leathery hide glowing with an inner light as he unhinged his massive jaw and spewed another wave of fire into the already crumbling trees. He turned, his massive, horned head bobbing on his long, spiked neck, smoke billowing from his massive nostrils as those burning, amethyst eyes met hers. _

_ “They’re gone,” he said, his voice deep and powerful, shaking the very foundation of the world. He towered over her, sharp talons clawing the earth, but she was not afraid. “I am the only one left.” _

_ She drew in a sharp breath. “The Horned Bull…” _

_ His rider, brash, arrogant, and invincible Beorn, was gone. She could not help but think,  _ Good riddance.

_ “Returned. Death has freed him from his oath,” he replied. More sorrow than she had ever thought the beast capable of was clear in his voice. “They are gone, and they will never come back.” _

_ She felt her chest constrict in sympathy and shame. “I am sorry, old friend.” _

_ She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers splaying out to construct a protective dome of hard wind around her as the dragon turned and unleashed another torrent of flame upon the earth.  _

_ “How can I make this better?” she shouted, holding out her arms in supplication. “What do you want? Freedom? I have already given you that. I let you go years ago. You are free to go anywhere you want.” _

_ “I will never be free!” he thundered, mammoth wings beating the air. “You have not let me go, for I am still here. I will never be free for as long as I am in this forsaken realm, far from my kin.” _

_ “Is that how it is, my friend?” she demanded, a challenge and reprimand in her voice as she waved her hand at the hell that surrounded them. “You are so miserable in this realm that you would burn it down in anger? You  _ wanted _ to be here. That was the basis of our agreement.” _

_ “I want to no longer. The world is not the same. It is cruel and hungry and violent.” _

_ “Is this not violence?” She threw out her arm. “The world has always been cruel and hungry,” she replied sharply. “Do not pretend you did not know this, did not indulge in it.” She looked away, staring at the ash and dirt beneath her feet. “We both did.” She looked up, eyes burning. “I thought you were happy here.” _

_ “How can I be?” he retorted, smoke curling between his teeth and wafting into the air. “I am a slave.” _

_ She sucked in a sharp breath and took an unsteady step back, wounded. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “Is that how you see it, old friend?” _

_ The dragon did not reply, but he did not have to. In that silence, she found her answer. He turned away, the surrounding inferno dancing in those familiar amethyst eyes. _

_ “Fine,” she breathed, standing up straighter as her hands balled into fists. “Then I will break our deal. You will be tethered no longer.” _

_ His neck swung, head snapping back in her direction. “It will kill you.” _

_ She shrugged. “Perhaps.” _

_ Her old companion stared down at her for a long moment, his membranous wings beating back the flames. Then at last, he lowered himself, bowing his head to the ground so that they now saw eye to massive eye. Man to beast. “Even if you survive the broken oath, you will not have long. You will not get your years back.” _

_ “Without you, I do not want them.” She lifted her hand, veined and spotty with age, and gingerly reached out. When he did not pull away, she laid one palm atop his scaly snout and used the other to lift up his massive head. The gesture was gentle and driven by muscle memory, almost ritualistic in familiarity, an echo of times long gone. _

You stubborn beast,  _ she thought.  _ Your heart has always been too big for this world.

_ He exhaled sharply in response, reading her thoughts, and she huffed, wrangling a zephyr to disperse the smoke. She smiled sadly. “I have missed you, old friend.” _

Sentimental fool,  _ he replied in her mind. _

_ She nodded, then withdrew her touch, her mind made up. “You will have the peace you deserve. Whatever time I have left I will dedicate to making sure you can never be found again. Will that satisfy you?” _

_ Again, he did not respond, although this time, she had a feeling it was because she had offered him what he wanted and he did not know how to accept it. But she knew him well, better than she knew herself. _

_ “When I die,” she whispered, her voice nearly drowned out by the raging flames, “will I find you again? In your realm or any other?” _

_ “I do not know,” he replied, the deep rumble of his voice matching her softness, her sorrow. _

_ She took a deep breath and lifted her hands. With no other questions, she supposed there was no point in waiting. She would do this here and now, before the suffering could be drawn out any longer. Lightning crackled in her palms, the essence of power, of raw magic. She met those amethyst eyes, read their apology, and tucked it deep into her soul. _

_ “Very well.” _

* * *

Iliana leaned back against the wall, cradling her arm in the darkness as she breathed heavily, still reeling from the shock of the sudden vision. Iliana checked her weapons, hand automatically going to the hilt of her old short sword, although she knew that there was no danger here to be fought.

_ What the hells was that? _

More tricks of the cave, she supposed. Or… was it something else? Had she been meant to see that?  _ How _ had she seen that? And why?

When Iliana had finally gotten control of her breathing again and her heart rate had slowed to a normal pace, Iliana conjured another Orb of Light.

She swore.

Where there had once been a wall of rock, a dead end, there was now an open passageway into a chamber beyond.

“Oh, hells,” Iliana muttered, then cautiously peered through the passageway, one hand on her old sword, the other holding the Orb of Light. The chamber was octagonal in shape, the walls, floor, and ceiling constructed of some sort of smooth, pale stone. At first glance, Iliana judged it to be white marble, but as she shifted the Light in her hand, she saw it had an iridescent quality.  _ Moonstone. _

Iliana pursed her lips, relying on her heightened perception and instincts to detect any trap. When she determined there weren’t any―at least not any that she could see and prepare for―she entered the room.

The moment she did, a wave of warmth pulsed through her, starting at her chest and flaring outward. Iliana gasped as the Orb of Light glowed brighter and brighter, completely beyond her control, until it hurt to look at. Iliana lifted her other hand to shield herself from the intense glow and felt her bones shudder as the passageway she had entered through slammed shut, sealing her inside.

And just when the Light became nearly unbearable to look at, it disappeared, thrusting her into impenetrable darkness. The  _ magic _ disappeared.

Iliana felt drained. She sagged to the ground, feeling as if all of the strength had been leached from her bones. She felt disoriented, lost without her senses. She could not see, smell, or even hear anything beyond her own haggard breathing, and she felt as if there was a gaping hole at the center of her world, at the center of everything. 

Nia had once said that the Light was like a tapestry, golden threads that connected everyone and everything. Deep down, Iliana had always been somewhat aware of its existence, of her connection, but it was not until she had met Nia that she truly understood that feeling. But now, it was all gone.

_ Who are you? _

Iliana drew in a sharp breath and unsheathed her old sword, holding it out before her as she unsteadily got to her feet. She gripped her hilt with both hands to stop it from shaking. “Who said that?”

But there was no one there. No one but her.

_ Who are you? _

The voice was impossibly deep, yet melodious, and entirely unfamiliar. Iliana shook her head, swallowing past the dryness of her mouth. “I don’t understand―”

The chamber was suddenly alight once more, lines of startlingly bright white fire jumping to life along the perimeter of the room. The moonstone seemed to burn with the fire and the ground trembled as that voice demanded again:

**_Who are you?_ **

“Iliana Nightbloom!” she cried, stumbling away from the center of the room and toward the way she came, but the passageway out was still blocked. No matter how hard she pushed against the wall, it did not budge.

Almost immediately, the white flames died down, their light no longer blinding but still present. Iliana’s heart hammered in her chest. Her instincts were honed for survival, trained in self-preservation, and now everything in her was screaming to run, to hide, but she couldn’t. She was trapped, and there was nothing she could do about it.

There was a chorus of voices, different from the one that first spoke. They echoed all around her. Curious, prodding.  _ Iliana… Iliana…  _

A gentle wind stirred around her, carrying her name in its currents.  _ Magic,  _ Iliana realized, although she could not call upon it.

_ Nightbloom… Nightbloom…  _

“What is this?” Iliana demanded, her voice tremulous. No matter how hard she tried, she could not rein in her nerves. They were all over the place, screaming conflicting commands.  _ Run. Stay. Hide. Fight. _

_ Iliana Nightbloom… Somebody? Nobody… No one…  _

That first voice spoke again and Iliana felt the ground quiver with its timbre.  _ Who are you, Iliana Nightbloom? _

Iliana shook her head, brows drawing together. “I’m not… I don’t understand. I’m―I’m an elf from Riverbend. I’m looking for my brother, Kade. And the Old Gods.”

The flames jumped higher, then shrank.  _ The Old Gods…  _

“Yes,” she replied, readjusting her hold on her sword before realizing that having it out was pointless. There was nothing a blade could do for her here. “I need their help.”

_ Help… _

The wind picked up around her, stoking the flames. Iliana’s shadows grew on the walls, flickering with the flames. She sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers curling into fists as she tried to clamp down on her nerves, which jumped in terror.  _ What the hells was all of this? _

_ Are you worthy, Iliana Nightbloom? _

“I…” Iliana opened and closed her mouth, unsure how to answer. Worthy of what? Worthy how? “I don’t know.”

The wind turned hot and angry, yanking on her hair, tugging on her clothes. The voice grew louder, the flames jumping higher. Iliana’s chest tightened with fear.

**_No one is._ **

“I…” Iliana did not know what to say, what to do. She glanced back at the passageway she came from, which unsurprisingly, was still blocked. But even if it wasn’t, there was no way she could leave. Her limbs felt leaden, her body frozen in place. Whether that was due to this magic, the voice, or her own traitorous and confused instincts, she did not know. “I’m sorry,” she said, because she did not know what else to say.

_ Are you afraid? _

Iliana ground her teeth, fingers clenching and unclenching, the only parts of her body she could control. She forced herself to answer, “No.”

_ Liar,  _ the voice hissed and the flames grew ever higher, their heat growing oppressive. The wind swirled around her with more force. It felt like small hands were tearing at her, shoving her, as if they sought to rip her apart.

Iliana’s fear rose but she shoved it down. “I’m not!”

The magic around her turned vicious and Iliana cried out in alarm as something sliced deep into her upper arm, a phantom blade. She clamped her hand over the wound, blood welling over her fingers, and called upon the Light to heal it, but nothing came.

_ Are you afraid? _ the voice demanded again.

“No!” Iliana snapped, spite creeping its way into her voice. Another slice, this time across her abdomen. It was shallower but no less painful. Iliana grunted, folding over as she covered the wound with her arm. In the swirling wind, she could have sworn she saw white figures take shape. Bare glimpses of something. Parts of a whole. There one second, gone the next. The tail of a snake, the claws of a bear, the feathery train of a bird. 

The magic bore down on her, knocking her to the ground and Iliana screamed as she felt the drag of claws across her chest, pain flaring up like a signal fire in her brain.

**_Are you afraid?_ **

Iliana felt like she was eleven years old again, her back pinned to the slick cobblestone that paved the streets of Riverbend, her lungs aching, cheekbone throbbing, and the tip of her ear bleeding. But now, Iliana admitted what she had been too proud to acknowledge then.

“Yes!” she sobbed, her voice ragged and hoarse, terrified tears spilling over her cheeks.  _ Yes,  _ she thought. _ I am  _ terrified.

Instantly, everything stopped. The wind died and the flames disappeared, although the moonstone walls still seemed to glow with an inner light, saving Iliana from the crushing darkness. Iliana gasped as her magic returned to her, the wounds on her arm, abdomen, and chest resealing themselves, leaving nothing but smooth skin and dried blood.

_ You do not know…  _ the voice murmured.  _ But now I do. _

There was a soft hiss, a whisper of sound, and one of the moonstone walls faded from existence, disappearing like mist in the moonlight. Where the wall once stood, a tunnel now awaited. 

Unwilling to wait another second, Iliana shoved herself to her feet and raced for the open passageway.

_ Come alone…  _ the voice murmured as Iliana sprinted from the chamber, so soft and quiet, she was not sure she had even heard it at all.

* * *

Aerin found Mal and Tyril first. Then about half an hour later, Nia, Threep, and Imtura.

Since they had never strayed from the path Tyril had marked, Mal and Tyril ran into very little trouble before Aerin’s path merged with theirs. Imtura, Threep, and Nia, on the other hand, had shown up, sopping wet, claiming that they had been plunged into an underground river. If Aerin had been in a better mood, he might have smirked at the irony.

But he wasn’t. Iliana was still missing and they had no idea how to find her. After reuniting, they had spent a good while debating if they should try to search for Iliana or if they should continue on to the heart of the Cave and hope that they found her somewhere along the way. Ultimately, to Aerin’s acute distress, they decided on the latter.

But in the end, it was she who found them.

According to Borte’s map, they were almost to the heart of the Cave, where the gods were rumored to reside, when Aerin heard a soft hiss from somewhere behind them. He turned to Tyril. “Did you hear that?”

Tyril paused, glancing back, a frown on his lips. “Yes.”

Before either could consider investigating or reference the notes on Borte’s map, they heard the rapid pounding of footsteps. A broken sob.

Immediately, Aerin’s nerves went alight. “Iliana.”

Aerin shoved his torch into Mal’s hands, then sprinted back the way they came without waiting for anyone else to react. “Iliana!”

Without his torch, Aerin could not see, but he heard a ragged inhale of breath that sounded a lot like his name, and then she was there, careening into him. Aerin grunted as he stumbled back against the wall, pain lancing down his spine. But he could not bring himself to care as Iliana’s fingers wound themselves into the back of his shirt, holding him tight to her, and he felt her tears wet the side of his neck.  _ Gods…  _

“Iliana, what happened?” he asked gently, completely unnerved. “Are you okay?”

But Iliana only shook her head, pressing more tightly against him, her back heaving beneath his palms.

What the hells had happened that warranted this reaction? He had only seen her cry three times before. Once on the mountain pass in Vishanti and twice in the cave, surrounded by indigo moonblooms. The first time had been because of regret, the second in anguish, and the third out of happiness. But this… this was caused by fear.

The tunnel around them came into view as their friends came closer, torches beating back the darkness. Aerin glanced the way Iliana came, his thumbs pressing soothing circles into her spine, and saw nothing of concern.

“Gods, kit, are you alright?” Mal asked, his brows knitted together, concern etched into his every feature.

“What happened?” Tyril asked, fingers wrapping around the hilt of the sword strapped to his back.

But Iliana still did not answer. Aerin could only shrug helplessly in response. He swept her hair back, untangling it from the buckles on their shoulder plates. As he did, he noticed that her sleeve was torn and stained with blood, although the skin beneath was smooth. Aerin’s stomach twisted and he held her tighter as he murmured, “Whatever it is that you saw, Iliana, it’s back there. You’re safe now.”

Truthfully, none of them were safe as long as they were in this Cave, but he decided not to mention that.

Iliana only nodded against him, her breaths still ragged and arms still shaking. But at least she had stopped sobbing. Aerin figured she just needed time to ride this wave out.

A short while later, he saw that he was right. Iliana pulled away, wiping at her eyes and cheeks without shame. She met his gaze and winced. “Sorry.”

Aerin shook his head, hand trailing down her arm, fingers catching on her torn sleeve. “Are you okay?”

Iliana took a deep breath, a slight hitch in her chest, and nodded. “I’m fine now.”

“Do you, uh, wanna talk about what happened back there, landrat?” Imtura asked gently from where she looked on. Aerin noted that even she looked unnerved by the sight of Iliana so distraught. It was undoubtedly a rare occurrence.

Iliana’s gaze shuttered. “No.”

Aerin’s stomach twisted even more at the hollowness in her voice but no one dared to press the matter any further. 

Iliana sniffed, wiping her eyes one last time, and withdrew fully from Aerin’s embrace, her fingers flexing at her sides as if she was trying to work feeling back into them. She cleared her throat. “How far are we?”

Tyril didn’t bother to consult the map again. “Not far.”

“Good.” Iliana laid her hand over the pommel of one of her swords and inhaled deeply. “Let’s go find these damned gods. And my brother.”

No one dared to contradict her there, either.

They continued down the tunnel with Tyril in the lead. Aerin waited until everyone else began to move before he cast one last glance in the direction Iliana had come from, then followed along.

* * *

Iliana did not know whether to be anxious or relieved when the mouth of the tunnel widened, spitting them out into another, massive cavern, and Tyril announced, “We’re here.”

Iliana froze at the entrance to the cavern, her heart seizing in her chest.

Aerin’s fingers brushed against the inside of her wrist, his touch feather-light. “What’s wrong?”

_ Wrong _ wasn’t the right word for it. No, it was the exact opposite. 

Stalactites dripped down from the ceiling of the cave, barely kissing the stalagmites that rose to meet them. Sparkling flecks of gems and veins of gold lined the walls and the dark rock almost seemed to shimmer in the firelight, as if the night sky had folded itself around them. But Iliana’s attention was not on the precious minerals that surrounded them. Instead, her gaze was drawn to the back of the cave, where volcanic rock gave way to a smooth wall of grey, pearlescent stone, that at first appeared to be labradorite, although it lacked the telltale colorful iridescence. 

She’d seen this place before. In her dreams.

_ You will have to make a deal. But you already have everything they need. _

In its glossy surface, Iliana could just make out her own reflection.

The feeling in this room was similar to what Iliana had felt earlier at the entrance to the Cave. Magic was everywhere, swirling around them. With barely even a thought, Iliana’s fingertips glowed silver with the Light.

“Iliana?” Aerin prompted when she did not reply.

Iliana blinked and shook her head. “This is it.” She cleared her throat, voice echoing throughout the vast chamber. From what she could see, it was empty. But there had to be more to it than what met the eye. “Spread out and search. Nia, Threep, and Tyril, you guys can take the left side. Mal and Imtura, the right. Aerin and I will search the middle and then work our way toward the back of the cave. There’s got to be something here. A hidden room. A way to call them to us. Something.”

They fanned out, searching every hollow and crevice of the cavern, but every lead turned up the same result. 

“I don’t see any gods,” Imtura said a short while later as she absently kicked a rock, sending it skittering across the room. The sound echoed throughout the cavern, bouncing off the dark walls. 

Tyril frowned. “The evening we arrived in Rysoth, Killian said they had to show themselves.”

“Well, now would be a great time for them to do it!” Mal said, sweeping his fingers along a rivulet of gold. He sauntered away from the wall toward the center of the room, then cupped his hands around his mouth and crowed, “Come out, come out wherever you are!” 

Silence.

Mal let his hands fall back to his sides. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, now I feel foolish.”

Threep snickered. “Did you really think that would work? This isn’t a game of Hide n’ Seek.”

Mal scowled. “You got a better idea, you mangy cat?”

Imtura unhooked the hammer at her belt as she walked along the perimeter of the cavern. She gently tapped the wall with its steel head, listening for the identifiable echo of a hidden passageway, then frowned and shook her head. “Maybe this isn’t the right place.”

“It is,” Iliana and Tyril replied at the same time. They glanced at each other, but it was Tyril who elaborated.

“I’ve spent hours studying Borte’s map,” he explained, as he shook his head, perplexed. The turns we took, the traps we passed… it all lines up. This is where we’re meant to be. They should… They should be here.”

“The Light,” Nia said, turning in a slow circle, “it’s stronger here than anywhere else but…” She stilled, lips pulling into a frown. “That’s it. I don’t sense anything else.”

Mal took a step toward her, his brow furrowed. “What does that mean, priestess?”

It was Threep who answered. “If the Old Gods were here, we’d be able to sense them. With all the power they are said to possess, we couldn’t miss them. And since we cannot sense them…” He trailed off although he needn’t finish. The meaning was clear.

“They aren’t here,” Iliana breathed. She squeezed her eyes shut, panic rising in her throat, jagged claws of fear raking through the inner cavity of her chest as she thought of the Realm of Shadow, the thousands Ash troops camped along its ashen planes. The Great Conquerors. She could still hear his voice, as clear as if he stood right beside her. 

_ I wonder, are you ready for us? _

Iliana shook her head, curling her hands into fists to keep them from trembling. “No. They have to be.”

Iliana heard the soft scrape of a boot against stone, then felt a gloved hand settle on her shoulder. Mal’s voice was soft, sympathetic. Pitying. “Kit―”

Iliana’s eyes snapped open and she jerked away from him. “ _ No. _ They have to be here,” she said vehemently. “We  _ need  _ them to be here. The Empire has found their way into our realm and if we don’t have the Old Gods on our side to stop them, then―”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Mal snapped back, meeting her fire with his own. “I have spent my entire life betting on the odds, and I know right now that ours aren’t great. But there’s nothing here. Do you see any gods? Do you see  _ anyone? _ ”

Iliana opened her mouth to snap at him when she saw Aerin stiffen out of the corner of her eye. “Iliana…”

All thoughts of the Empire and the Old Gods were instantly banished from her mind at the sound of his voice, unsteady and concerned. Iliana turned away from Mal and strode toward where Aerin stood at the back of the cavern amidst a jumble of rocks. “What is…”

The words died on her tongue as she rounded a stalagmite, took in Aerin’s pale face, his shocked expression, and the object of his attention, which lay at his feet in a bundle of dark fabric. 

The sound that was pulled from Iliana’s throat was hoarse and animalistic. “Kade!”

Aerin stepped back as Iliana threw herself to the ground beside her brother and pulled him across her lap. Behind her, Iliana heard the surprised exhalations of Kade’s names upon her friends’ lips, but she could not divert her attention from anything other than her brother, who was so pale, so cold, in her arms.

“Holy gods, Kade,” she breathed, her hands fluttering over him, momentarily uncertain what to do. His eyes were closed, skin completely leached of color and throwing his freckles into stark contrast. His body was a leaden weight atop hers, his limbs lax with unconsciousness. Aerin’s hand was on her shoulder as he anxiously looked on, but Iliana barely registered his warmth as she pressed her fingertips to the side of Kade’s neck and―there. A pulse. Faint, but still there.

“Is he alive?” Aerin whispered and Iliana nodded vigorously.

“Yes,” she croaked, her fingers curling into the dark material of Kade’s cloak. “But I don’t―I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“Let me see.” Nia crouched down beside them, laying her hand over Iliana’s wrist and gently pulling. For a moment, Iliana resisted, the primal instinct to protect her own momentarily overwhelming all rational thought. But then she felt the warmth of Nia’s Light against the pulse point of her wrist and forced herself to pull away and let the priestess inspect Kade.

Iliana sat back, her chest heaving. She had not dared to speak the thought into existence, but all day she feared Kade was gone, lost to the Cave and its tricks. But he wasn’t. Kade was here.  _ Kade _ was  _ here. _ Iliana couldn’t believe it. The boy had found his way here, all on his own. She could not even begin to contemplate how. The time for answers would come later, when Kade was well and safe.

Nia sat back, the Light fading from her fingertips and her face pale.

Iliana straightened. “What is it? What’s wrong with him?”

Nia shook her head. “He’s… he’s in some sort of coma. I can’t wake him.”

“A coma?” Tyril echoed, leaning over them. “For how long? 

“Long,” Nia answered, her brows knitting together. “Presumably ever since he arrived here.” 

Aerin shook his head, perplexed. “Kade left for the cave days before we arrived. If he’s been down here all this time, with no food, no water, then how―”

“That’s just the thing,” Nia mumbled, laying the back of her hand against Kade’s forehead. “He shouldn’t have survived this long. But it’s like… his body has preserved itself. I can’t find anything wrong with him aside from this coma.” She pulled back and shook her head. “I can’t do anything else here. I can look at him again at the Aerie with Borte and the other healers. But whatever it is that is keeping him alive, I don’t trust it to hold forever. We should leave now and get him back as soon as possible.”

“Leave now?” Mal echoed. “After all the trouble we went through to get here?”

“She’s right,” Iliana muttered, shaking herself out of her shock. “Let’s go. I don’t… I don’t want to risk him. And besides…” She looked up, gazing around at the empty cavern and all of its empty promises. “There’s nothing for us here.”

Aerin frowned. “Iliana… Are you sure? I mean, Mal did have a point. We did come all of this way. Perhaps we should take another look around before we go.”

“Look around all you want,” she said sharply, the relief, terror, and exhaustion of the day finally weighing down on her. Her words were guttural, spoken through clenched teeth. “I just want to get the hells out of this place.”

She no longer cared about the Empire of Ash and the Old Gods. She was  _ tired _ of caring about all of that. All Iliana could focus on was the fact that Kade was here and she had to make sure he was properly taken care of. Because she was his big sister and it was her job to make sure he was safe and protected. Nothing else mattered. Not right now.

_ Kade isn’t like you, Iliana. He’s smart, but he’s not as quick and clever as you. That’s why the two of you have to watch each other’s backs. Right? _

Right.

Iliana’s weariness must have been evident because Aerin pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay,” he agreed, pulling away so Imtura could get her arms beneath Kade. “We’ll go.”

No one argued with that, either.

* * *

“So we’re screwed, right?” Mal asked as he twirled a blade around his fingertips, one hand wrapped around a pint of ale. He sat back on the bench, resting his elbow on the dining table behind him as he stretched his legs about before him, crossing them at the ankles. “No gods, no luck. We’re screwed.”

“Mal,” Nia chided, frowning at him from where she sat at the bench of another table with her arms crossed. “Don’t say things like that.”

They all sat on the empty benches of the dining hall, which had long since cleared out after supper, waiting for Iliana to return from the infirmary with Killian, Borte, and Morrigan so they could discuss what exactly came next.

“If Iliana heard you say that,” Imtura added, absently sloshing her ale around in her tankard, which was still full. It seemed that even she was not in the mood to drink tonight. “She would throw you over the edge.”

Mal shook his head as he set his knife down on the table. “I wouldn’t bet on it. Did you see her earlier? Kit is just as over all of this as I am. She knew how important those gods were, and she sure as hell knows how screwed we are without them.”

Nia’s frown only deepened. “That doesn’t mean you have to  _ say _ it. We still have to do something.”

“Something happened back there.” Aerin sat forward, bracing his arms on the edge of the table. “To Iliana. Back in the Cave. I’ve never seen her so shaken. Have any of you?”

A chorus of  _ No _ and several shaking heads were given in response. Tyril pressed his lips into a grim line. “I certainly found that… discomforting.”

_ To say the least, _ Aerin thought dryly.

Before they could discuss the matter any further, the doors to the mess hall swung open, admitting Borte, Iliana, Morrigan, Killian, and―

“Captain.” Aerin stood, his brow creasing with worry as Ristridin limped through the door, a wooden crutch beneath his arm. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I am a knight,” Ristridin replied tersely. “If we are going to war, I should be planning.” When Aerin opened his mouth to protest, Ristridin simply held up his hand. “Don’t even try it, boy. Even your father knows better than to try and stop me from working.”

Aerin resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the man’s stubbornness.  _ Looks like we’re back to “boy” again. _

Aerin’s gaze shifted to Iliana as she sat down beside him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from crying, and Aerin felt his stomach twist with unease. “How’s your brother?”

Iliana opened her mouth to respond, then closed it and simply shook her head.  _ Nothing new.  _

Well, he supposed that was better than dead. Aerin reached out, brushing his fingers over her knee in comfort. Iliana glanced down at his hand, then took it between her own, clinging to it tightly. Aerin’s stomach only twisted itself into even more knots.

“It seems like the magic of our realm is preserving him in an intentional state of unconsciousness,” Borte answered as she perched herself on the edge of a bench. “I cannot wake him. None of our remedies worked. It seems that for the time being, the only way her brother will wake is if the magic releases him or he wills it to be so.”

“Are you saying that it is possible that Iliana’s brother… put himself into a coma?” Tyril asked, his dark brows pulling together.

Borte shrugged, her yellow eyes narrowing. “I’m saying  _ something _ did. It could have been him. Or something else.”

Iliana’s fingers tightened around Aerin’s hand and he wondered how it was possible that she was even holding herself together right now.

“So,” Borte stated bluntly. “You didn’t find the Old Gods.”

Aerin’s gaze flicked from Iliana’s to Tyril’s before answering. “No. We got to the heart of the Cave and found nothing.” He glanced at Ristridin, unable to help but feel a little ashamed. Not even one day had passed of gaining the Captain’s trust and Aerin had already failed him. But he knew the man well enough to know that Ristridin would not accept apologies or excuses. Only solutions. “So we need another plan.”

“The Empire of Ash will be here any day now,” Tyril stated flatly, sparing no effort to soften the blow of his words. “We have no army and very few allies. Perhaps we would have been better off staying in Morella trying to garner support from our own people.”

“No army?” Killian echoed, his brows creasing. He sat up straighter, the tips of his wings brushing the ground as he looked at Aerin. “What about your own? I assumed―”

His own? Why would he assume Aerin had an army? Before Aerin could voice his confusion, Iliana swiftly interjected, releasing his hand to plant both of her palms on the table. “What of the other Wing Leaders, Killian? There are eight others, yes? Did you speak to them?”

Killian’s slate-colored eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze slid to Iliana, evidently understanding something Aerin did not. “I did. While you were all in the Cave, I held a conclave.”

Iliana sat forward, hopeful. “And?”

“And,” he sighed heavily, wings drooping to brush the ground, “it’s just us. I’m sorry.”

Iliana’s fingers flexed against the table. “How many are under your command?”

“Around five hundred.”

Iliana ground her teeth, Imtura swore beneath her breath, and Tyril let out a displeased hiss. “That’s not going to be enough,” Iliana snapped, throwing up her hands in disbelief. Don’t they see that their lives are at risk too? When the Empire comes, their terror won’t stop in Morella. It will come here, whether they choose to fight or not.”

“Believe me, I tried to tell them that,” Killian assured her, holding up his hands in a calming motion. “There’s only so much I can do when I’m not even officially Wing Leader yet.” His gaze flicked to Morrigan, gauging her reaction, although she seemed completely unbothered. “But even if I was, it would make no difference. They are very set in their decision. No gods, no assistance.”

“Fools,” Tyril spat, shaking his head.

Killian nodded in agreement. “On the bright side,” he added, shifting his attention to Aerin. “At least you will be in nobody’s debt.”

_ Nobody’s debt?  _ Beside him, Iliana winced ever so slightly and Aerin instantly knew she was responsible for that comment.  _ What the hells did you do?  _ Aerin wondered as he quickly glanced at Iliana, who kept her gaze trained on the table. He returned his attention to Killian and remarked dryly, “Yes. A silver lining.” Beneath the table, he kicked Iliana’s foot. “How fortunate.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Imtura asked, her face set in a harsh grimace. “It’s going to be a massacre. Throw up a white flag? That sure as hell ain’t my style.”

“If we don’t try, it will only be worse,” Nia said, cupping her chin in her hand. “We have to at least try to fight back. There must be something we can do. People we can call upon. There’s got to be people outside of this room who are willing to fight with us.”

“Like who?” Mal asked. “We haven’t been home in weeks. Nobody in Morella even knows about the Empire.” At this, Iliana put her head in her hands as Killian’s gaze narrowed in on her. “And even if we could somehow get home by tomorrow and tell everyone, there’s no way we can convince people to fight. We have no authority to give orders. Forming alliances takes time, not to mention resources, and we have none. Nothing to offer. There’s nothing we can do.”

_ No authority. No resources. _

“There is,” Aerin said suddenly, sitting up straight.  _ We have none of those things, but there is someone who does.  _ Hazy memories rose to the forefront of his mind. Trebuchets tested in the highlands. New ballistas installed on the parapets of the Whitetower walls. Fully stocked armories. “There is something we can try.”

_ There are more people than you think who are willing to follow you. You just have to reach out.  _

It was a leap of faith, and truthfully, Aerin had no reason to believe this would work, no reason to believe that he would be trusted, much less heeded. But it was time to mend this bridge, to leave this pain in the past. Or to at least try to. He turned to Ristridin, only to find that the Captain was already staring at him expectantly. Somehow, Aerin had a feeling the old man already knew what he was thinking, had been waiting for him to come to this conclusion on his own.

_ No army? What about your own? _

Aerin turned to Killian, who seemed to be in the middle of a tense staring contest with Iliana. “I need a favor.”

Killian dragged his gaze from Iliana and tilted his head. “What’s one more?” he remarked dryly, shrugging his shoulders. He shot Iliana another look, then nodded his chin toward Aerin, folding his hands together on the table. “What can I do for you?”

“How fast can you fly?”

Killian grinned and leaned back. “I’d say pretty fast. But if speed is what you need, I have the Squallers. There’s not a single creature in the realm that can fly faster than those men.”

_ Good.  _ Aerin took a deep breath, glancing first to Ristridin, who he could have sworn nodded ever so slightly, then to Iliana, his gaze snagging on the circlet of gold that gleamed on her thumb. At last, he spoke. “I need you to deliver a letter for me.”

Killian arched a brow. “To whom?”

Aerin ground his teeth, his hands curling into fists. “My father.”


	30. Song of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You will have to make a deal. But you already have everything they need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: blood and mentions of death

_ Beneath the savage sun, amidst the golden plains of the southern settlements, Iliana stood on a hill, gazing down at the steaming corpse of a sacked town. Small fires burned through the thatched roofs of abandoned cottages and the rubble of small buildings littered the main thoroughfare. The stables were burned to the ground, the horses lost to the plains or taken with the raiders who had brought ruination and death upon the village. _

_ This was… This was her hometown. Her  _ real _ hometown. Where she was born, where she had spent the first few years of her life with her parents _ ― _ not that she could remember them. _

_ “By the gods,” someone breathed beside her. _

_ Iliana turned and felt her heart slam to a halt inside her chest. “Amphitryon.” _

_ Her adoptive father stood beside her, his weathered face shaded by the wide-brimmed straw hat he wore atop his head of mousy brown and grey hair. In his sun-speckled hands, he held the reins to a grey pack mule, which was harnessed up to a small wagon filled with bundles of carrots and ears of corn. His honey-colored eyes were wide with horror as he took in the scene before him, the remnants of a massacre. Iliana followed him as he tied his mule to a nearby tree, then cautiously approached what remained of the town, paying her no heed. _

_ The town was even worse up close. The dirt roads had turned to mud, soaked through with water from broken pipes and diluted blood. The air was foul, thick with the stench of rotting flesh and waste. Iliana tried not to look at the bodies that were heaped on the streets, vacant eyes staring at an empty sky. There was no sound, save for the squelch of Amphitryon’s boots in the mud, the buzzing of flies, and a sudden crash that made Amphitryon jump back in surprise. Iliana’s own heart pounded as the old farmer cautiously edged toward the alleyway from which the crash sounded. _

_ As Amphitryon rounded the corner, Iliana just barely caught a blur of dark hair, like a black banner in the wind _ ― _ a mourning flag. Amphitryon stilled, his eyes widening slightly, then he slowly continued forward. The alley ended in a smooth stone wall, a pile of garbage and broken crates stacked in the back corner. _

_ “Hello?” the farmer called gently. “Is someone there? _

_ There was no response. _

_ Amphitryon frowned and glanced back toward the main street as he mumbled to himself, “Probably just an animal.” _

_ For a moment, Iliana thought he might turn back the way he came, but then his body tensed, as if for some reason, even his limbs could not be swayed to retreat, and Amphitryon continued forward. He stood at the end of the alleyway and turned in a slow circle. When he wandered into the back corner, there was a faint noise, a bit of wood creaking under pressure. It came from above. _

_ In unison, Iliana and Amphitryon looked up, their attention immediately landing on a small pale periwinkle face, big green eyes, and a sheath of long dark hair. There was an audible gasp and the little girl’s face disappeared from view. Iliana took an unsteady step backward, falling against the alley wall, lips parted in shock. _

_ It was her. This was how Amphitryon had found her. She did not remember any of this. Her earliest memories had not come until at least a year later, when she had already settled into her new life on the farm. _

_ “Hey, it’s okay,” he said gently, moving to stand beneath the window. “I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t have to hide.” _

_ Iliana watched as her younger self edged towards the window, the tips of her ears just barely visible above the sill. _

_ Amphitryon frowned at her silence, then took his hat off, clutching it to his chest as he gazed around the alley. His eyes wandered across the pile of garbage, then up the almost completely smooth stone wall that led up to the window. “Did you climb up there, kiddo?” _

_ Iliana’s younger self poked her head above the windowsill and hesitantly nodded. Amphitryon let out a low whistle in response. “That ain’t an easy feat. Makes my back ache just thinking of it. You must be a clever one.” _

_ Young Iliana did not give any reply, but she did not disappear from view either. _

_ “Not much of a talker, are you?” Amphitryon scratched the back of his neck and sighed before asking tentatively, “You, uh, got any folks around here?”  _

_ There was a moment of hesitation, then little Iliana shook her head. _

_ Amphitryon blew out a long breath, his shoulder sagging. His suntanned, weathered face looked impossibly sad. “Right.” He glanced back toward the mouth of the alley, then set his hat atop his head once more. Then, without even a moment of consideration, he said, “You wanna come with me, kiddo? My wife, she… I’m sure she’d love to meet you. She’s always wanted a little girl.” _

_ For a moment, Iliana _ ― _ the older Iliana _ ― _ was floored by Amphitryon’s generosity. He had not even hesitated before offering her, an orphaned elf, a place at his hearth. _

_ Younger Iliana still did not move. _

_ Amphitryon frowned, his knobby fingers scratching at his beard. “Do you like corn? Carrots? We’ve got plenty of that.” _

_ No response. _

_ “What about…” he tilted his head, trying to think of something else. “What about animals? You like animals?” Almost instantly, Iliana sat up straighter and Amphitryon laughed lightly. “You do, don’t you? Well, we got some animals on the farm. Chickens, mostly. My neighbors got some sheep. I’ve got a mule with me now if you want to meet him. He’s a real gentle giant.” _

_ Slowly, younger Iliana nodded. _

_ “Alright, good,” Amphitryon said, his body sagging in relief. “But you gotta come down first. I can’t come up and get you. Unless you know of another way in _ ― _ Careful!” _

_ Amphitryon and older Iliana both drew in a panicked breath as the little girl heaved herself up onto the windowsill, then rolled over the side, her small hands and bare feet finding the slightest of footholds in the stone wall.  _

_ “Oh, hells,” Amphitryon breathed, his voice full of dismay. In a moment, Iliana saw why. _

_ In the unforgiving sunlight, Iliana saw that the back of her younger self’s head was slick, her dark hair knotted around a wound that slowly dripped blood onto the back of her tunic. Iliana cringed at the sight of it, feeling phantom lances of pain shoot down her spine. It looked bad. _

_ Iliana’s attention was abruptly diverted from the wound when she heard skin scrape against stone, a small gasp cut through the air, and then her younger self was falling, right into Amphitryon’s arms. _

_ “Oof!” the old farmer grunted as he caught her, staggering back beneath the force. “Easy there, kiddo.”  _

_ He gently set her down on the floor and Iliana felt her gut twist. The little girl before her could not be more than four years old. The moment her feet were on the ground, she swayed, weak with blood loss, her green eyes unfocused, and Amphitryon caught her again, hefting her into his arms. _

_ “Alright, alright,” he grunted. “Looks like this is how we’re going to go. Just hang tight, kid. We’ll be somewhere safe soon.” _

_ He teetered slightly, but Amphitryon’s arms, strong from all of those years working on the farm, did not falter. Iliana followed him all the way through the silent town to the tree he had tied his mule to. By this point, young Iliana had fallen into a deep sleep, which seemed to make Amphitryon anxious and eager to leave. _

_ Iliana was beginning to worry when Amphitryon set her younger self into the wagon, then untied his mule, ready to set off once more toward Riverbend.  _ Kade, _ Iliana thought, her stomach twisting. Kade was supposed to go with them.  _ Where was he?

_ Amphitryon gripped the mule’s reins, then began to retreat down the hill toward the main road. But the animal did not budge. The mule exhaled heavily, its hooves stomping the ground. Amphitryon scowled, tugging on the reins. “Come on, you big lug. We need to get home. You can rest there.” _

_ The mule flicked its tail and did not budge, even as Amphitryon tugged harder. It jerked its massive head, yanking the rope from the farmer’s hands and forcing him to chase after it. _

_ “Divine intervention,” someone murmured beside her. _

_ “Of course you’re here,” Iliana remarked dryly as her gaze fell on the robed figure, his dark cloak impervious to the pale dust that floated in the air. Iliana opened her mouth when she was suddenly cut off by a sudden noise, bright, sharp, and clear as day. _

_ A baby’s cry. _

_ Iliana’s lips parted. Kade. _

_ Amphitryon stiffened at the sound and almost immediately, the mule stopped straining against him, its task fulfilled. This time, Iliana did not follow as Amphitryon tethered his mule to the tree once more, checked on the little elf girl in his wagon, then raced down the hill toward the old cottage on the outskirts of town where the cries were coming from.  _

_ “That was intentional,” Iliana murmured, her brows pulling together. “Something made sure he found Kade.” _

_ “That ‘something’ made sure he found you, too,” the robed figure replied and Iliana’s chest tightened. She recalled the way Amphitryon had suddenly tensed in the mouth of the alleyway, unable to turn away from her hiding place. _

_ “Who?” Iliana questioned. “Or what?” _

_ The robed figure cocked his head. “Us.” _

_ Iliana felt her blood run cold. But before she could ask what that meant, the figure shook his head and waved his hand. A wind swept through the plain and with it, the scenery around them disappeared, instantaneously replaced by a barren strip of blackened earth. Two thousand years later, and no life managed to grow in this field. _

_ Cragheart. _

_ “Why are we here?” Iliana asked as she turned in a slow circle, the dry, cracked earth crumbling beneath her boots. It was nighttime, but the sky was blotted out by a blanket of clouds. In the distance, just above the tops of the heartoaks that started to grow on the outskirts of this field, Iliana could see the gleaming spires of Whitetower. She had never realized just how close the Morellian capital was to the place the last great elven empire fell. _

_ “Because,” the robed figure replied, drawing her attention away from the capital. “They’re here.” _

_ As he spoke, the very fabric of the air seemed to split in two, yielding a swirling portal, much larger than any Iliana had ever seen before _ ― _ large enough to swallow an entire ship whole. And at the center of that portal stood the Emperor.  _

_ His flaming gaze locked with hers. He smiled and lifted his hand in greeting.  _ Little star.

_ Iliana drew back in shock, clamping her hands over her ears, although it was no use. He was  _ in her head.

One day,  _ he crooned.  _ One day, I will come for you.

_ Then, he waved his hand forward, and thousands of troops marched onto the field of Cragheart. _

_ “You are not done yet,” the robed figure snapped, his voice more urgent than she had ever heard it before. He grabbed her hand, touching her skin for the second time ever, and Iliana shuddered, the scent of warm bread overwhelming her senses. She could feel the flaky rolls beneath her fingers, taste the rich butter that melted in her mouth. She felt that pinch in her abdomen again, like a string had been tied around her spine and pulled taut. _

_ Then she was somewhere else. Back in the Cave. _

_ Iliana stood behind that smooth wall of grey stone, although this time, its surface was too opaque to see her own reflection. Instead, mist seemed to swirl within it, like billowing drops of ink spreading through water. _

_ “There are still more secrets for you to discover in the Cave,” the robed figure murmured, his voice soft and far away. When Iliana turned around, she saw that she was alone. _

_ Frowning, she turned back to that wall of strange rock. The mist within churned, forming vague shapes that dissipated before Iliana could grasp what they were supposed to be. _

_ Cautiously, she reached out and touched the wall. _

_ Like a single drop of water falling into a lake, the mist rippled around Iliana’s touch, and dissipated outward. When it cleared, it was not Iliana’s reflection that stared back at her. It was Kade’s. _

_ “You’re almost there, Iliana,” he said gently, his moss-green eyes roaming across her countenance. “The Old Gods will not want to listen, so you must make them.” _

_ “I _ ― _ I don’t understand,” she stammered, her fingers skimming over the wall in search of a crack, a point of weakness she could strike to break him out. “What is this? How do I get you out? Where are you?” _

_ Kade shook his head, oblivious to her efforts. “Remember what you have learned. You have everything you need.” _

_ “Kade, please!” _

_ Kade laid his hand against the glass, palm pressed flush to its surface. Instantly, Iliana pressed her own against it, covering his fingers with his own and wishing desperately that she could feel his touch. She did not know what she was begging for, but she pleaded, “Kade.” _

_ His eyes met hers through the wall, through time, through space, and through realities. Then he whispered, “Come find me.” _

* * *

The moment Iliana awoke, she knew what she had to do. She swung her legs over the side of the infirmary cot she had fallen asleep on, right next to Kade’s. She glanced back at Aerin, who was still fast asleep, and couldn’t help but feel a little rueful. Just once― _ once _ ―she would like to enjoy a full night of rest by his side. Soon, she promised herself, she would. Just not tonight.

Through the windows of the sickbay, Iliana could see that the moon was still high in the sky. Gods, how long had she been asleep for? Three hours? Maybe four?

Grumbling beneath her breath, Iliana tugged her boots on and laced them up, already starting to put a plan together in her head. She was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, leather vambraces and all, so she didn’t need to bother changing. She did, however, need to stop by her room in the barracks to retrieve her weapons, stop by Borte’s workshop to swipe her map, and find someone―preferably Morrigan or Killian―to take her back to the Cave.

Iliana shuddered involuntarily at the thought of that horrible place, the very real fear she now associated with it. The last thing she wanted to do was go back to that dark labyrinth of twisting tunnels and deadly tricks―in fact, she wanted nothing more than to crawl back into that tiny cot with Aerin and wait for Kade to wake up soon, but she couldn’t. Terrified as she was, she had to figure out what secrets were still hidden in the Cave.

Iliana laid the back of her hand against Kade’s forehead―cold―then held her palm before his nose―breathing. Hopefully, if her dream was any indication, Iliana would find whatever she was meant to discover in the Cave, and when she returned, she would do so with the means to wake her brother and stave off the first wave of this war.

Iliana glanced back at Aerin as she twisted that golden ring on her thumb. Gods, she did not want to leave him, did not want to go alone. She knew that if she woke him up and asked, he would come along without question. But something in her gut told her she had to do this alone.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Iliana pulled Aerin’s signet ring off her thumb and laid it on the mattress beside him. She had no idea what the night had in store for her, but that ring was far too precious to risk losing in some wretched cave. It was ridiculous, how bare she felt without it. Iliana flexed her fingers, noting that where the ring once sat, there was already a slim band of skin that was paler than the rest.

Iliana took a deep breath, then turned and strode for the door. She had just gripped the handle to the door when she heard a low voice.

“And where are you going, my lady?”

_ Ristridin.  _ Iliana turned, her hand sliding from the door. She shook her head. “I am no lady.”

The Captain sat up in his bed, hands folded in his lap, wooden crutch propped up against the wall beside him. His dark eyes shifted from her to across the room where Aerin still slept soundly. “At least one of you knows that.”

Iliana bristled but she could not argue. He had a point. She was still an orphaned elf from Riverbend. Her dream had certainly reminded her of that.

Ristridin sighed heavily and tilted his head, giving Iliana a look of appraisal. “But I’ve never been fond of the nobility and their extraneous titles. So perhaps it is a good thing that you aren’t.”

Iliana relaxed slightly, a small smile crossing her features. Oh, she liked the Captain. She had a feeling they would get along just fine. “I agree.”

“Hmph.” Ristridin nodded, sitting up a little straighter. “You never did answer my question. It is late. Where are you off to at a time like this?”

Iliana’s finger curled into fists at her side as she took a deep breath. “To fix this mess.”

Ristridin’s dark brows rose as he nodded slowly. “I see.” He glanced at Aerin, then back to her. “By yourself?”

“It’s for the best,” Iliana replied.

“Some paths must be walked alone,” Ristridin said sagely, giving Iliana one more once over. After a moment, he inclined his head toward her. A sign of deference and respect. A blessing. “I wish you the best of luck, Lady Iliana.”

Iliana gave him a small smile and mirrored his gesture. “Captain.”

Then before Iliana could lose her nerve, she slipped outside―

―and walked right into Morrigan.

“Oh!”

Morrigan reached out and grabbed one of Iliana’s shoulders to steady her. Beside her, Borte peered up at her, her yellow eyes gleaming in the moonlight. She looked Iliana up and down. “You’re going to the Cave, aren’t you?”

Iliana opened her mouth, a dozen excuses immediately rising to the surface. But then she snapped her mouth and nodded, opting for the truth. “I am. I have to.”

“Mmm, I know you do,” Borte replied, eyes sparkling in approval. “And that is why we have brought you this.” She waved a stumpy hand toward Morrigan, who hefted up a set of armor.

It was beautiful, crafted of silver metal that shone like liquid starlight in the light of the moon. Iliana reached out, her breath caught in her throat, and ran her fingers along the breastplate. The etchings were ancient and familiar, the craftsmanship fine. Elven.

“This is…” Iliana shook her head, at a loss. “How did you come across this?”

“I’m an old,  _ old _ woman, Iliana Nightbloom,” Borte replied, “I have come across many treasures in my time. This is my least valuable. So you may have it.”

Iliana smirked and took the breastplate, weighing it carefully in her hands before sliding it over her head. She secured her silver shoulder plates and vambraces, then strapped greaves to her legs. It all fit perfectly.

“Look at that,” Borte clucked, looking her up and down. “Yes. If anyone is going to bring those Old Gods out of hiding, it can only be you, Realm-Walker.”

Iliana froze in the middle of adjusting the buckles of her armor.  _ Realm-Walker.  _ She looked up, eyes wide in disbelief. “You knew. You all did.”

Of course they did.

_ What’s here? _ Killian had asked the day he had rescued her. _ The very things you seek, Realm-Walker. The Old Gods. _

How had she missed that? She’d been so distracted by the Old Gods and the mere existence of Rysoth, she did not even realize that these people already knew who they were.  _ They didn’t just know us,  _ Iliana thought to herself.  _ They were  _ expecting _ us.  _

Iliana turned to Morrigan, who nodded apologetically. But before Iliana could question her, Borte interceded. “We did. We’ve known about the Battle of Light and Shadow for months. The Dark Prince, the Priestess of Light, and the Realm-Walker. We’ve been waiting for you ever since. But I asked them not to tell you.”

Iliana shook her head. “Why? You made us introduce ourselves to you!”

“I wanted to give you a chance to define yourselves to us,” Borte replied, glancing at Morrigan before continuing. “Out here in Rysoth, we only get information by word of mouth or by our informants, and stories always change depending on who’s the one telling them. And,” she added, eyes narrowing. “I needed a chance to study you. To see what kind of hero we would be following into battle.”

Iliana’s mouth went dry. “Hero?”

“You’re the Realm-Walker, Iliana Nightbloom,” Borte said, taking Iliana’s wrist and holding up her hand. “A living conduit. Only you have the capacity to wield the purest of magic and to cross into other realms at will. Including that of the Old Gods.”

“The Cave.” A thrill went down Iliana’s bones.  _ Where the Veil is thinnest, magic is more potent. More volatile.  _ “It’s not a sanctuary for the gods. It’s the entrance to their realm.”

Borte released her, nodding in confirmation. “Yes. The Realm of Light and the Realm of Shadow are similar enough that a conduit can open a portal between them at any location. But that is not the case with the realm of the Old Gods. The magic there is stronger―”

“More untempered,” Iliana provided and Borte nodded before continuing seamlessly.

“―so it is more difficult to access. The Cave is the only place in and out of their realm.”

“And I can get there,” Iliana concluded.

“You’re the only one that stands a chance,” Borte replied gravely.

_ The only one that stands a chance.  _ No pressure. No pressure at all. Iliana closed her eyes and took a deep breath as she collected herself. A few moments later, she opened her eyes and nodded. “Okay. But first, I need to get my weapons.”

“No need.” Borte stepped aside, revealing a gleaming shield and Iliana’s sheathed short sword. The old bat had gone into her rooms and retrieved it.

“I…” Iliana plucked her old sword off the ground and slid it partway out of her sheath. It gleamed in the moonlight, well-balanced but completely ordinary. 

Iliana thought of how long it had taken her to work this hunk of metal that she’d found on the side of the road into something usable, how much coin she had poured into it. The leather bindings that wrapped the grip of her hilt were salvaged from an old mule harness Amphitryon had tossed away. It had taken two whole days and an entire jar of oil for Iliana to beat the strips so that they were supple enough to wrap around her hilt. Compared to the Blade of Sol, it was a piece of junk, but… It was a piece of home. Reliable.

“It will do,” Borte assured her, her voice surprisingly gentle as she laid her hand atop the sheath. “It has gotten you this far.”

Iliana nodded, then retrieved the shield from the ground. It was round and silver like the rest of her armor, its edges beautifully engraved with a motif of twisting vines, also elven. It would do just fine.

“Alright,” she said, strapping the shield on her back and fastening her sword to her belt. “Then I guess I’m going. No point in waiting. Do you have the map?”

“You won’t need it.”

Iliana looked at the dwarf woman for a long moment, then nodded slowly. Before Iliana could turn away, Borte seized her forearm, forcing her to meet her yellow gaze. “Bring back those Old Gods, Nightbloom,” Borte told her, voice stern and full of fire. “Drag them out by their necks if you have to.”

Iliana raised her eyebrows, then, emboldened by the dwarf’s confidence and grit, gave her a wicked grin, her fear melting away to something hot and unyielding. “I will.”

Iliana looked at Morrigan, fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of her old sword. “Will you take me there?”

Morrigan straightened, wings fanning out as she nodded. “Of course.”

“Good,” Iliana stated, casting one last glance over her shoulder toward the infirmary, toward Aerin, Kade, and the Captain. Then she faced Morrigan, heart set in determination. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Borte was right. Iliana did not need the map, for the magic of the Cave guided her way. At first, Iliana treaded cautiously through the chambers, using the Light, her senses, and all of Mal’s sneaky tricks to avoid any potential traps. But when she reached a door that required some sort of puzzle to be answered―similar to the one that led to the catacombs of Undermount―and it simply swung open, Iliana realized that all of her vigilance was for naught.

The Cave wanted her here.

Far sooner than it had taken the first time, Iliana reached the moonstone chamber―it seemed as if the magic would not let her avoid it―and that strange voice greeted her with an almost warm familiarity. The white flames jumped to life although they did not burn. When Iliana felt her magic disappear, she did not falter. And this time, when that voice asked her,  _ Are you afraid? _ Iliana replied, “Always.”

The white fire and moonstone seemed to glow brighter in approval and once again, one of the walls faded from existence, revealing the next passageway. And as Iliana left the pure radiance of the strange room, she could have sworn the voice murmured,  _ Good luck, Realm-Walker. _

When Iliana reached the heart of the Cave, she let her Orb of Light hover at the center of the room, bathing it in a watery light. Almost immediately, her attention was drawn to the wall at the back of the chamber. The surface did not churn and swirl as it had in her dream and the only reflection Iliana saw in it was her own. But as Iliana lifted her hand to its glossy surface, she felt the magic in the room swarm around her. Her blood sang and her bones hummed in anticipation.

_ A living conduit. _

Iliana reached back, her fingertips skimming over the smooth surface of the shield at her back, the pommel of her sword, and then the pale band of skin on her thumb. She took a deep breath, gathering her courage, then stepped  _ through  _ the wall and into another realm.

* * *

It was indescribable.

Iliana stood on a broad outcropping of rock that overlooked a bountiful valley carpeted in thick green grass, a smooth wall of stone, just like the one she had walked through in the Cave, at her back. Fire lilies―flowers Iliana only recognized from Kade’s stories―bloomed in great sweeping arcs across the base of the majestic mountains that bordered the vale, star-shaped flowers whose petals of heatless flame blazed like tiny suns. A phosphorescent lake shimmered at the center of the basin, its shores awash with shimmering white sand that glittered like heaps of diamond.

The sky was unreal. At first, the pink and gold hues reminded Iliana of a spectacular sunrise, but a closer look revealed that the entire progression of the day was present in the sky, but reversed. Dawn lay in the western quartile, then midday, dusk, and night. Oddly enough, no sun seemed to be present.

“It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?”

Iliana turned, her hand immediately reaching for her sword, although she dropped her hand to her side when her gaze fell across the robed figure. He stood at the edge of outcropping, facing the valley, tattered dark robes fluttering slightly in the wind. Iliana frowned, brows drawing together. “Is this a dream?”

The figure turned, face still hidden by the shadows. “No.” 

When he spoke, his voice was no longer as low and raspy as Iliana had always known it to be, nor did it come from every direction at once. Instead, it was… natural. Ordinary. Mortal.  _ Familiar. _

Somehow, Iliana knew that if she just reached out, she would have the answers she had been searching for all along. Iliana reached out and, with hesitant fingers, pulled back the figure’s hood. She sucked in a sharp breath and took an unsteady step backward. “No…” 

Kade offered her a tentative smile. “Hello, Iliana.”

Iliana did not know what to do, what to think, or how to react. So she fell back on years of muscle memory and pulled her brother into her arms. “How?” she breathed, shaking her head in disbelief as she stared blankly over his shoulder. “How is this possible? I saw you out―out there!”

“You saw my body. But this is where my consciousness resides. In the realm of the gods.”

_ Impossible, _ Iliana thought.  _ This is impossible. _

Kade shook his head. “It’s not.”

Iliana’s eyes widened. He had  _ heard _ her thoughts. “It was you,” she murmured as she pulled away, her hands sliding over his shoulders, feeling the smooth, worn fabric of his robes. “In my head. In my dreams. All this time, it was you.” She swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to meet his eyes. “Wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Kade said slowly, his gaze flicking to the side. “And no. Whoever you saw was me, but a version of me that hasn’t… happened yet.”

Iliana blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“We exist and operate outside of time and space,” he explained, carefully choosing his words. He stepped away from her, turning back to face the valley. His expression was thoughtful. Grave. “I haven’t brought you to the place in between yet, but I will. In the future, when all of this is over. If we survive. If everything goes as it should.”

Iliana did not even know how to process any of this, nor did she know what to think and what to feel. She had so many questions, but the only one that surfaced was, “‘We?’”

Kade’s throat bobbed but he straightened, lifting his chin. “The Watchers.”

Iliana sucked in a sharp breath and turned away as she recalled the first visions she had ever had of the robed figure, the first time she had been exposed to the knowledge of the Empire of Ash, the Old Gods, and a very terrifying, very real, possible future. 

_ I am a member of a very ancient order. We are the secret guardians of history, the secret keepers of the true knowledge. I come today to watch… but also to warn. _

Kade lifted his brows. “I said that? How ominous and pretentious.”

“So what, you’re a mind reader now?” Iliana frowned, wrinkling her nose. She wasn’t sure how she felt having her thoughts open to her brother at all times.

At this, Kade flushed and looked away sheepishly. “Sort of… but just for you. You’re my charge. I don’t have to hear your thoughts. You’re projecting right now though, practically shouting in my head.”

Iliana faced him once more, head spinning. “What do you mean I’m your charge?”

Kade studied her silently for a few long moments, then sighed heavily. He sat on the ledge and gestured for her to sit beside him, kicking his legs over the open air. He looked so boyish, so young, Iliana had difficulty reconciling the boy she grew up with―her brother―with the grave figure that had been counselling her, urging her on, all this time. What had happened to him to turn him into… into  _ that? _ And how… how was it possible that her brother, the person who knew her best―who  _ she _ knew best―was a part of some sort of secret order, and she had no idea? 

Feeling very small and confused, Iliana wrapped her arms around herself as she sat down beside him and swung her legs over the edge, mirroring his posture. They sat in silence for a few moments, gazing out at the impossible view, the wind stirring their hair. Iliana felt like her entire body was buzzing, alive and thrumming in response to the magic that was all around them. Despite everything, Iliana felt a sense of peace wash over her. 

But her solace was quickly dispatched when Kade finally spoke again. “I should not have survived that massacre,” he said softly, drawing Iliana’s attention away from the valley. “Neither of us should have. The raiders swept through our town and killed every single person who lived there, except for us.”

“We were lucky,” Iliana stated, even though the words felt hollow in her mouth.

Kade smiled ruefully. “In a sense.” 

Before Iliana could question what he meant by that, Kade continued on. “We were spared. Everything that has happened, everything that  _ will  _ happen, depended on that day, on our survival.”

Iliana shivered involuntarily.  _ We were spared.  _ “Why?” she asked. “For what purpose?” 

“For this,” Kade replied simply, waving his hand in a lackadaisical circle. Iliana knew he did not just mean the realm. “The war.”

“And what makes us so special?”

Kade let out a bitter laugh, the sharp sound so at odds with his mild demeanor. “Nothing,” he said dryly, shaking his head. “That’s just it. Nothing. We were lucky, as you said. Picked at random.” He glanced at her sidelong. “Perhaps there  _ was  _ some thought put into choosing you.” He shook his head. “I was just lucky enough to be in your orbit.” 

Iliana was stunned into silence, unable to do anything but listen as Kade continued on, unraveling the world as she knew it with every word he spoke.

“But it could have been anyone,” Kade murmured, folding his hands together in his lap. “All that mattered was that we were in the right place at the right time, that we were there when Nia needed us to save Vash, and that our bond was strong enough for you to come after me. To save me. That’s why I’m here, Iliana. To move you along and help you become what you need to be, to get to where you need to be. To move history along.”

Iliana squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to process all of this. “When did… when did you learn about this? Did you know all along?”

“No.” Kade shook his head. “No. I found out about a week ago. When I came here. I thought I was the one who was supposed to find the Old Gods. But it turns out, that was you.”

“How?”

“I met my predecessor,” he answered, giving her a sly smile. “The last Morellian Watcher, tasked with guiding the elven empire through the Great War.”

“The Great War was a disaster!” Iliana protested. “The empire fell at Cragheart.”

“It was a success,” Kade insisted. “A setup for what is coming now. A battle with the Dreadlord was going to happen one way or another. The way history unfolded as we know it is the best possible outcome. The empire was always meant to fall so that years later, someone else would finish what they started. You.”

Iliana frowned. “It was because of me, because of what happened in the Shadow Realm, that the Empire of Ash knows about us. That battle is the reason why they want to attack our realm.”

Kade shook his head. “They would have come one way or another. The Empire’s breach into the Realm of Light is inevitable. Regardless of what happens with the Dreadlord―if the elves conspire with him or not―the Great Conquerors invade. The only difference between this path and the others is that we have you. A conduit. A Realm-Walker.”

“You mean… everything happened the way it did,” Iliana said slowly, “so that someone―me―would be able to wield the Blade of Light. To become its conduit.”

“And so that you could come here.” Kade waved his hand around them.

“To find the Old Gods,” Iliana stated.

“And to call them to war,” he corrected, his face grim. “It is the only way that we will stand a chance.”

“So if I bring them,” Iliana began, her heart beating fitfully, “we’ll win the war?”

“I don’t know,” Kade admitted honestly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s no way to tell how it will unfold from here for certain. I can’t see the future. Before I knew it, my job was to be your motive. And when all of this is over, when I know how this unfolds, it will be my job to assist you from the place in between.”

“But since that has happened, since you’ve already aided me… doesn’t that mean we were successful? That it all worked?”

“Maybe,” Kade conceded, although he seemed hesitant. “But success can mean different things. Does it mean that we saved the realm and everyone lives happily ever after? Or does it mean that we correctly set up the next chain of events that are meant to happen? I don’t know, Iliana. The version of me that you met in the place in between is probably very old. Thousands of years old. The instructions and advice you were given is the result of years of observation.”

“Why can’t you―future you―just tell me what happens? What I have to do?” Iliana asked. “Why all of the vague visions?”

Kade gave her a sympathetic smile. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it? But that’s not how it works. History needs to unfold on its own. A bit of subtle guidance can fly, but anything more than that is risky. The intervention that spared our lives was a great risk. There are other Watchers who are far older and more experienced than I am, that understand the flow of time and its intricacies better than I ever will and who keep our reality in check.”

Iliana frowned. She didn't even want to try to understand any of that. Instead she asked, “Who was it?”

“Who was what?”

“Your predecessor,” Iliana answered, rubbing at her temples. “Who was the last Morellian Watcher, the one who shaped the Great War?”

Kade gave her a sly smile. “Are you sure you want to know, sister? It’ll come as a bit of a shock.”

“Now I’m even more intrigued.” Iliana grinned, nudging his shoulder. “Come on, then. Spill.”

“Ellara.”

Iliana’s eyes widened. “ _ No. The _ Ellara? Battlemage Ellara. Second-in-command to King Xaius, Ellara? As in the Temple of Ellara, Ellara?”

“Yes, the very same.” Kade’s lips twisted. “Fitting, isn’t it? That the place where our journey began was her temple.”

“I’d say,” Iliana mumbled, still reeling from this new information. She sat forward, curious. “What was she like? When you met her?” Iliana looked around, brows drawing together. “ _ Where _ did you meet her?”

“In the place in between,” Kade replied and Iliana fought the urge to quip,  _ Of course. The place in between. The place that makes no godsdamned sense. _ “And she’s exactly how you would imagine her: kind of terrifying, but nice enough.”

“Huh.” Ilana sat back, leaning on her hands. “I guess that is how I would have imagined her.”

Kade laughed softly and for a moment, Iliana could almost pretend that she was back in Riverbend, sitting on a grassy knoll on the farm, listening to Kade tell stories.

Kade looked at her for a long moment before asking hesitantly, “So you believe me?”

Iliana huffed, glancing over at him. “I would believe anything at this point. But…” She chewed her lip and sat up straight, gazing down at her hands. “There is one thing I don’t understand.”

Kade tilted his head. “What?”

“Why can’t you bring back the Old Gods?” Iliana asked, giving him a cursory glance. “You’re already here.”

“Oh, believe me, I’ve tried,” Kade muttered, shaking his head. “But they won’t even give me the time of day. Probably because I have nothing to offer and I’m not even corporeal.”

Iliana blinked. “What do you  _ mean _ you aren’t corporeal? And you’ve seen them? The Old Gods?”

“I’ve seen, uh, one of their forms. Sometimes I glimpse the other,” Kade said slowly, gazing first at the many-hued sky, then at the vale before them. He held up his arm, pointing toward the phosphorescent lake. “That’s where the Great Serpent likes to reside sometimes.”

On the glittering shores of the lake, Iliana could just make out a shimmering ripple of magic, a vague shape of a being that resembled a man, although it was far taller than any creature Iliana had ever seen. She watched in awe as the figure stepped into the glowing waves and disappeared beneath the surface. There was a bright flash beneath the lake’s surface, then a ridge of webbed spines breached the surface, attached to an black undulating body that was so long, its head and tail were not visible beneath the waves. 

_ The Great Serpent, _ Iliana thought with a shudder. She did not even want to imagine how large and terrifying it was. 

“The Great Serpent… lives in a lake?” she asked.

Kade shook his head with a laugh. “There’s an ocean out there somewhere,” he said, jutting his chin toward the mouth of the valley. “They come and go from the vale, but I didn’t want to stray too far from here. I wanted to be here when you arrived, to see you one last time.”

Ice flooded Iliana’s veins. She turned to Kade. “What do you mean,  _ one last time?” _

He smiled sadly. “I can’t leave, Iliana. I don’t have the magic to make it back through. I think being a Watcher is the only reason my consciousness was able to enter this realm. That’s what I meant when I said I’m not corporeal. I’m not here like you are.”

Iliana reached out to brush her fingers over his cheek. It was warm and solid beneath her touch. “But I can feel you. You seem corporeal enough.” Iliana reached back and flicked his ear.

Kade grimaced and batted her hand away. “That’s because this place is ripe with magic. Truthfully, if I had come here with my body, the magic probably would have torn me apart. But in this form…” Kade shrugged. “You could probably shove me off the side of this cliff and I would survive. But please don’t. It would hurt. Like a lot.”

Iliana gazed over the edge, her stomach swooping anxiously as another thought rose to the forefront of her mind. “But I have my body. So I could still die?”

Kade frowned and nodded grimly. “Yes.”

_ Okay,  _ Iliana thought.  _ So it’s just like normal. Except I have no idea how this realm works or what threats there are. _

Iliana’s gaze flicked to the lake where the Great Serpent had been. So that was where one god resided. She just had to find the rest. And she should probably do so soon. But first… 

Iliana got to her feet and looked down at Kade, holding out her hand. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Go?” Kade echoed, his brows pulling together. “Go where?”

“Back to our realm,” she replied as Kade gripped her hand and she pulled him to his feet, backing away from that sheer drop. She’d already fallen off one cliff. She did not plan on doing it again. “You said that you don’t have the magic to cross back, but maybe you don’t need it. I’m the Realm-Walker, after all. I got everyone back from the Realm of Shadow. Maybe I can do it here, too.” Iliana lifted her hand, flipping it back and forth. “I can’t explain it, but I feel… stronger here. More connected to the magic.”

“I…” Kade looked unsure, his eyes roaming across her face. “Do you think it will really work?”

“It has to. If it doesn’t, we’ll find a way,” Iliana replied, her voice firm and resolute. “I’m not leaving this place without you. I have a lot of feelings about the Watchers using you to lure me out here―none of them very kind―but they were right about one thing. You’re my motive. My brother. And I would do anything to keep you safe. I came all this way to bring you home, and that is exactly what I am going to do. I’m not leaving this place without you.”

Kade looked at her for a long moment, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Then he rushed forward and threw his arms around her, the top of his head butting into her chin as he squeezed her tight. “I thought we were going to have to say goodbye.”

Iliana wrapped her arms around him, her little brother. “Never.”

Kade pulled back, wiping his eyes, and Iliana laughed, ruffling his hair. “What are you crying for? Did you really think I would leave you behind?”

“No.” Kade shrugged. “But I didn’t think it would be possible for me to really go back. Honestly, I still don’t know if your idea will work, even if it is true that you can channel more magic. But you’ve always had a way of making the impossible seem possible.”

Iliana smiled wryly. “So I’ve been told.”

_ It’s just… when you say all of that… I almost believe it. _

Kade raised his brows. “Prince Aerin? You brought him along?” His eyes widened. “Are you two―”

Iliana scowled, her cheeks flushing. “Get out of my head.”

Kade rolled his eyes as he wrinkled his nose. “Stop projecting.”

“I don’t even know what that is supposed to mean!

“Just put up a wall or something, I don’t know,” Kade shrugged, lifting his hands helplessly. “I’m new at this.”

Iliana sighed, carefully reining in her thoughts. Maybe Borte or Tyril had some information that could help them out. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

Iliana took Kade’s hand, prepared to pull him toward the smooth stone wall she had crossed the Veil through when another voice cut through the air.

“Leaving so soon?”

Iliana turned and gasped. Beside her, Kade stumbled back in surprise. Instantly, Iliana reached out, seizing the front of his tunic so he didn’t tumble over the side of the cliff. Three tall figures towered before them, their human-like forms shimmering and near transparent. Their features were indiscernible―Iliana wasn’t even sure they had faces―but the power they emitted was exigent.

“The Old Gods,” Iliana breathed.

Kade immediately dropped to his knees in supplication, bowing low to the ground. But Iliana did not move. She stared at the Old Gods, her heart hammering in her chest, and had a pressing feeling that they were studying her, sizing her up.

“You,” said the god on the left, her voice dulcet and slow. Even in its cold indifference, it sounded nurturing, like a mother lulling a child to sleep. Although the gods were featureless, Iliana somehow knew this one was addressing Kade. “We have seen you before. A fly on the wall. Watching and waiting. Insignificant.”

“But you,” said another, whose voice was like the howling wind. Iliana shivered, feeling the chill of a snowkissed gust of wind sweep down her spine. “You are something else. Who are you?”

Iliana glanced at Kade, who had lifted himself up to a kneel. His eyes were wide as he looked at her, waiting for her to respond.

Iliana swallowed the lump in her throat and forced her voice not to waver as she replied, “Iliana Nightbloom.”

“Why are you here, Iliana Nightbloom?” questioned the first god, gentle and prodding, although something in Iliana told her that as kind as this one sounded, it could be anything but.

“I need your help,” she declared, her nails biting into the palms of her hands as she curled them into fists to keep them from shaking. “My realm is in danger. The Empire of Ash―”

“No.”

Iliana froze. Kade stiffened beside her. Iliana opened and closed her mouth several times before settling on, “Sorry?”

“No,” replied the god on the right, the one with a voice that sounded like the wicked wind. “We have no interest in joining your war. Or in entering your realm.”

Iliana’s heart pounded. She had always thought it was possible that the gods would refuse to aid them, but she had never believed it would happen before she could even make her case. “But―”

“We are done with the affairs of the so-called Realm of Light,” replied the first god. Iliana noted that the one at the center had yet to speak. “And even if we wished to get involved, we cannot. Not without a tether.”

Iliana furrowed her brows. “A… tether?”

“Yes,” replied the one on the right. “You call them…  _ riders.” _

Then, Iliana watched in awe and fear as the gods transformed before her eyes. Their shimmering figures stretched, grew,  _ solidified. _

“This is as you know us, isn’t it?” asked the first god, newly formed. “The beasts for your riders.”

Iliana sucked in a sharp breath as she recalled the names Tyril had given her so long ago, in a Morellian forest south of Vishanti. The Mother Bear stood on the right, massive and powerful, with a coat of rich brown fur. But she did not look like an ordinary bear, no. She had six, dark, depthless eyes, three on each side of her great head, all of which were staring intently at her. 

The White Wolf, the one whose voice sounded like the howling winds of the Frostwhisper Mountains, stood on the right. He looked like the Vishanti wolves, with fur that looked as if it had been spun from starlight. But unlike the Vishanti wolves, the god’s eyes were wholly white, with no pupils, and gleamed like pale moons. And if that was not strange enough, the great wolf had  _ two _ vicious heads.

But inexplicably, Iliana’s attention, her whole being, was drawn to the god at the center. 

“You,” she whispered, heart stuttering to a halt in her chest.

Instantly, his massive head swiveled in Iliana’s direction. Wordlessly, she took in the broad, membranous wings, the crimson and black leathery hide, and wicked talons. Two staglike horns protruded from its triangular-shaped head, and massive spines jutted out from the back of his neck. His eyes bored into hers, amethyst to emerald. The Sky Dragon.

_ You will have to make a deal. _

“I want to make a deal,” she said breathlessly. Then she cleared her throat, forcing strength into her voice as she stared down the dragon. “With you.”

Somehow, she knew that this god was hers, the one she was meant for. The one that was meant for her. This feeling went beyond the fact that he was the one the Watcher―Kade, technically―had shown her numerous times, or that she had seen him in that strange vision back in the Cave when she touched the painting. No, this feeling was deeper than that. The certainty was in her bones.

His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Is that so?” he mused, finally speaking. His voice was thunderous, like the sound of burning forests and falling cities. The sound of destruction. He lowered himself, long neck bringing his head only a few paces from where Iliana and Kade stood. She felt the warm puff of his breath, heard the air shift around her, and curled her fingers tighter into her palms. He asked, “And what shall I get in return?”

_ But you already have everything they need. _

Iliana’s gaze flicked to the other gods, who looked on indifferently, before she answered, “Anything you want.”

“Anything,” he echoed, drawing back. “Do you even know what it means to be a rider? What you are offering up in exchange for our power?”

Iliana opened her mouth to reply, but she didn’t. She did not know what her half of the bargain was. She was certain that the vision in the cave had yielded some information about it, but she could not recall what exactly had taken place. The vision―a memory, it seemed―had come on so quickly, she’d had no time to prepare. “No.”

“No,” the dragon agreed. “And yet, you ask for this deal anyways.”

Iliana clenched her jaw, then demanded, “Just tell me the price. I can pay it.”

The dragon huffed, but it was the Mother Bear who answered. “We are beings of pure magic, Iliana Nightbloom. Too capricious to hold a single, corporeal form in your realm for longer than a few hours. That is why we need a tether, a bond that allows us to form a mortal body. This can all be done for the price of your life.”

Iliana sucked in a sharp breath. “My life?”

“Half of it. All magic has a price,” crooned the White Wolf. “Your life begets ours. If you die, we would simply return to our realm, the bargain completed.”

“And if you died?” Iliana questioned.

“Then you would be dead and we would still return to our realm,” the White Wolf said harshly, snapping its jaws. 

“In a weakened state,” the Mother Bear added, her voice soothing but stern. “So these deals are not taken lightly by either party.”

Iliana drew in a deep breath, glancing over at Kade, who had gone pale with all of this new information. She faced the gods again and stood firm. “I told you before I would pay any price. If years of my life is what it takes, then so be it. There are others, in my Realm, that might be willing to make deals with the rest of you―”

The White Wolf scoffed, tepid breath stirring her hair. “You’re mistaken. Life is the price of the tether, not the price it would take to lure us into a bargain.  _ That  _ is far greater than anything you mortals could offer up. And even if you could, we refuse.” The White Wolf shook its heads and began to turn away. “We do not make bargains with mortals anymore. We will not get involved in your war. You came here for nothing.”

Before Iliana could protest, the White Wolf shifted again, white fur disappearing into shimmering matter that swirled and then dispersed into the surrounding trees, great Dorim trees. Iliana heard a rumbling sound, then glimpsed flashes of white―an entire pack of white beasts―racing through the woods.

The Mother Bear began to turn away as well, but before she dispersed into a magical essence, she paused at the dragon’s side. “It is because of you that the girl has found us,” she said coldly. “You will deal with it.”

And then she was gone in a whirlwind of magic, leaving the trees to stir in her wake.

Iliana stared at the space the other two gods had once been, dumbfounded. Cold dread and the sticky feeling of hopelessness pooled in her stomach as she turned to the dragon. “So what, I’m just supposed to return to my realm and face this war on my own?”

The dragon tilted his head, studying her for a few long moments, amethyst eyes luminous in a sea of dark scales. When he spoke, his baritone voice was almost regretful. Pitying. “My last mortal―” Iliana could have sworn there was a sort of tenderness in the way he said that,  _ my last mortal _ ―“who went to great lengths to conceal the entrance to our realm, made the mistake of leaving behind the means to find us should the need arise.”

“The Call,” Kade murmured and the dragon nodded.

“A riddle that has floated from mouth to mouth, mind to mind, for centuries,” the dragon rumbled. “Not once has anyone successfully passed from your realm to ours, so it has never been proven to be true. Possible. Until you.”

“Iliana…” Kade’s fingers wound themselves into Iliana’s sleeve. His voice held a warning that Iliana understood too late.

“No one on the other side can know of our realm. Of our existence,” the dragon continued, taking one massive step forward. “So no, little one. You will not face this war alone.”

Step after terrible step, the dragon approached. “You will not face this war at all, for leave is no longer possible.” He stopped before them, towering over the two orphans from Riverbend, underbelly glowing with a warm light. Smoke curled from his nostrils. “I am afraid your time has come, Iliana Nightbloom.”

He opened his mouth, revealing a gaping maw lined with thousands of vicious teeth. A pinprick of light began to burn at the back of his throat, a smoldering ember that steadily burned brighter and brighter as he uttered, “Farewell.”

And then, he unleashed a torrent of flame upon them.


	31. Song of Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They will not want to listen, so you must make them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: blood and violence

_“I am afraid your time has come, Iliana Nightbloom. Farewell.”_

Iliana shoved Kade in front of her, out of the line of fire, then threw herself forward, narrowly missing the volley of flames as she rolled beneath the dragon’s belly. The moment her feet slammed into the ground, she sprung up and grabbed Kade’s arm as she barked, _“Move!”_

Partially crouching, they ran beneath the dragon’s underside, sprinting away from the cliff’s edge and that fire-spewing mouth. They were about to dart around the god’s hind leg when the sky yawned open above them and the dragon turned, facing them once more. Iliana felt the air around them shift, the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and in a fraction of a second, decided to tackle Kade to the ground.

“Wha―Iliana!” They slammed into the ground, unforgiving granite. Iliana felt her teeth clatter together, armor clanging with the fall, but she did not have time to gripe over the impact because a wave of fire rolled over their heads. The flames were so hot that even from a short distance, Iliana began to sweat beneath her armor. The moment there was an interlude in the deluge, Iliana hauled herself to her feet, dragging Kade up with her and shoved him forward as she held her ground. “Go!”

Kade stumbled forward, then hesitated, looking back at her. “Iliana―”

 _“Go!”_ she snarled, then turned, trusting Kade to get the hells out of the way as she threw up her hands and emitted a pulse of Light. The blst was far stronger than Iliana anticipated on accord of the tempestuous nature of the realm’s magic, and Iliana was thrown back, the wind rushing from her lungs. But at least the Sky Dragon seemed to be equally affected. He reared back, wings flared out, and head swinging from side to side as if to shake away the daze from the blinding blast.

“Iliana!” Kade cried from nearby.

Iliana pushed herself up to her elbow and looked over her shoulder. Kade stood at the edge of the forest, eyes wide with panic, body tense, as if he was thinking about lunging into the fray after her. Iliana narrowed her eyes in warning. “Didn’t I tell you to _go?_ Clear the area! I’ll find you when I’m done!”

Iliana did not wait to see if her brother listened to her, although she certainly hoped that for once in his life, he would. Instead, she forced herself to her feet, unslung the shield at her back, and unsheathed her old sword. She slammed the flat of her blade against her shield, the sound ricocheting through the air as she stared down the Old God. 

“Come on, beast,” Iliana snarled, hefting up her sword. “Let’s see if you gods can die.”

The ground trembled beneath her feet as the dragon roared and Iliana dove to the side as a pillar of fire struck the space she had occupied only moments before. She was on her feet in seconds, blood singing with the promise of a fight―the fight of her life, really. 

Iliana lunged beneath his wing and went for his side, swinging her blade in a wide arc, but its edge simply glanced off his flank, the leathery hide too tough to pierce with simple steel. Iliana eyed the god’s underbelly, which was less exposed but softer than the rest of his hide―she would have to aim for more vulnerable areas.

She was about to dive beneath the dragon when he flattened himself to the earth and swiveled his massive head in her direction, mouth opening to blast her with fire. Trapped between the god’s body and his wing, Iliana crouched low to the ground, compacting her body as tightly as possible behind her shield and hissed an elvish incantation for protection as a wave of fire washed over her. 

It was hot―blazing hot. Even with the protection spell, her shield began to glow red, but she forced herself to hold on to the leather handles. Iliana gritted her teeth, sweat trickling down the back of her neck as her armor took on heat. Iliana’s arms began to tremble beneath the onslaught of flame, her strength would not last forever, and neither would her spell. Just when she thought she could not hold on any longer, the fire mercifully stopped.

Iliana did not wait for the god to draw breath and begin his attack anew. She hurled another Orb of Light, and although her attack did not daze the dragon as it had before, it distracted him, just long enough for her to act.

She darted toward his forearm and aimed her sword for the long sinewy connection that connected it to his membranous wing. At the last second, the dragon lifted his wing, and Iliana’s blade instead sliced into the back of its hand. The dragon roared again, in annoyance and pain, and swept his hand toward her, sharp claws reaching to spear her clean through.

Iliana batted them away, her shield taking the brunt of the damage, talons screeching against silver steel. Iliana swung her sword again and made contact, feeling first the reverberation of her blade hitting hard flesh and bone, then the wet squelch as sinew gave way and she severed one of its fingers. Another cry rattled the earth and before Iliana could sprint out of the way, the dragon turned and swung its long spiked tail straight into her chest.

Iliana went flying, her shoulder screaming in pain as she slammed into the ground almost twenty paces away, landing in a heap of tangled limbs. She only had a moment of recovery before she was forced to roll aside, narrowly avoiding a short burst of flame. Iliana staggered to her feet, legs unsteady, and turned to see the fruits of her labor.

An exasperated string of curses left her mouth as she took in the bloody stump where the dragon’s finger had once been, then watched as new bone grew in its place, veins, sinew, and calcium reforming the lost digit and its wicked talon.

“Is that all, little one?” the god demanded as it turned to face her once more, powerful wings beating the air, forcing Iliana to hold up her sword and dig her feet into the ground to avoid being blown back.

_They will not want to listen, so you must make them._

Iliana only grinned in response, then charged.

She dodged another burst of fire, her right greave heating almost painfully with the close proximity of the flames, then ducked beneath the dragon’s underside. She dropped her shield on the ground before her, threw herself to her knees atop it, and slid. She raised her sword overhead, carving a deep groove into the dragon’s underbelly, hot ichor pouring onto the ground as she went. The wound sealed itself almost immediately, but the bellow of pain and frustration was satisfaction enough.

Iliana slid out from under the great beast, ducking to retrieve her shield, and was about to launch another attack at its hind leg when the Sky Dragon turned, snatched her in its taloned hands, and slammed her into the ground, pinning her there. Iliana wheezed for air as his weight bore down on her, crushing her chest. Her sword and shield skittered out of her hand, still within her grasp, although she did not dare to reach for it just yet.

“Your attempts are in vain. You cannot escape,” he rumbled, the tip of one of his claws pressed to the hollow of her throat as he loomed over her and opened his mouth. “Let it be done.”

He sucked in a deep breath, stoking the pinprick of light at the back of his throat and Iliana shouted, her mind pulling the name from the depths of her recent memory, “Mor!”

The dragon froze, the ember immediately dying as smoke poured from his nostrils.

“Mor,” Iliana panted, her head pressed to the ground to avoid the talon at her neck. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Not anymore.” The dragon bared his teeth but did not move to kill her. “How did you come by that name?”

“I saw a… well, it must have been a memory,” she confessed, her brain scrambling to retrieve everything it had retained from that vision she saw inside the Cave. “From your last rider. It was of the day she released you from your bargain. She… She did it for you.”

“A sentimental fool,” Mor remarked, although his comment held venom, and Iliana reflexively thought, _Stubborn beast._

“She was the one who designed the Cave, wasn’t she?” Iliana guessed, taking the moment to catch her breath and think. Her mind strayed to the return journey from the moonbloom glade with Aerin. The prince had gone on and on about how sometimes, sword fighting can be a little bit like chess in terms of being strategic every move. Then, she had happily listened, simply overjoyed by the fact that he was still with her and able to tell her about silly, proper things like chess. She had never imagined that she might actually _use_ that bit of information.

Iliana stretched her fingers out, skimming the hilt of her sword. “She did all of that to make it more difficult for people to find the way to your realm. She kept her promise, the one she made before letting you go.”

Fresh tendrils of steam wafted from between Mor’s teeth. “She created the Call. She made it possible to find us.”

“Only for the direst of circumstances,” Iliana replied, her chest rising and falling with deep breaths, testing the weight of the dragon’s hand. In their conversation, the pressure had lessened somewhat. 

“Even with the riddles, the Cave was full of tests.” Iliana suppressed a shiver as she thought of the moonstone chamber. “She wanted to make sure that only worthy people could even find the entrance to your realm. She tested me,” Iliana admitted. “And for some reason, she let me through. So I could find you.”

Mor’s hand slid back a fraction, just enough so that the tip of his deadly claw no longer laid at the base of her throat. He spoke slowly, perplexed. “She let you through to find me.”

Iliana curled her fingers around the hilt of her sword. “Yes.” 

She flipped the blade in her hand and stabbed clean through the god’s mottled wing before jerking the sword down, tearing the membrane. He immediately released her as he lurched back, roaring in pain. Iliana hastily got to her feet and shouldered her shield before sprinting away, racing toward the jagged wall of the mountainside. Clearly, she could only do so much damage from the ground. She needed another approach, a new vantage point from which to attack. She just hoped she didn’t get herself killed in the process.

Iliana scaled the wall as quickly as possible, jamming her fingers and toes into any cracks and handholds she could find. _Get to higher ground,_ she thought grimly as she sliced her fingers on the jagged stones. _Just high enough to get the drop._

“Fleeing already?” Mor boomed behind her, his voice close. Too close. “There are better places to run and hide, although to do so would still be futile.”

Oh, she was well aware of that fact. She resisted the urge to glance over at the copse of trees that Kade had thankfully disappeared into. It would have been so easy to disappear into the woods, and eventually, she might have to try. But if Kade was hiding in the forest, she needed to give him time to get away before she brought death and destruction in her wake. 

When Iliana risked a glance over her shoulder to make sure that Mor wasn’t about to blast her off the mountain, she saw that his wing had healed and he was now watching her with morbid fascination, as if he wanted to see what she had in store. So she had successfully garnered his attention as planned, transforming their battle from a swift execution into something personal and entertaining. Iliana suspected that was the only reason the Old God had not burned her to ash by now.

Before long, Iliana hauled herself up onto a small ledge, barely large enough to hold a single wagon. When she turned, she saw that she was about eye level with Mor as he rose up on his hind legs, massive talons digging into the mountainside.

“Now where will you go, little one?” Mor taunted her, smoke curling from his nostrils as his head bobbed before her, scaly snout barely skimming the ledge. Iliana backed away from the edge, pressing her back to the wall. The dragon’s maw opened in a vicious smile. “There is nowhere else to run.”

Iliana huffed a laugh. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Then, she charged forward and jumped off the ledge.

Mor reared back, swinging his head out of her reach but Iliana’s long legs propelled her off the edge just enough so that she slammed into the side of his neck. Iliana felt her bones rattle, her breath leaving her lungs in a rush. With one hand, she grabbed hold of one of the rigid spines that lined the back of the dragon’s neck, and with the other, she stabbed her sword straight down, breaching the leathery hide just enough to wedge her blade in, creating a solid handhold. 

Mor bellowed, and Iliana felt her entire body thrum with the vibrations of his roar. She gripped her sword and held on with every bit of strength she had as the dragon beneath her thrashed in an attempt to shake her off. Iliana squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach swooping and twisting, nausea rising, as she was thrown from side to side, but still, she maintained her hold.

Iliana nearly sagged in relief when the swinging stopped but the trouble was far from over. Iliana heaved herself up, swinging her leg over the back of Mor’s neck and readjusting her hold. _Okay, you got the drop, Iliana,_ she thought to herself. _Now what?_

Iliana’s gaze lifted from the row of jagged spines she sat between to the tip of the dragon’s horned head. If she could just climb her way up… The Watcher―Kade―had told her she needed to force the Old Gods to listen. She imagined taking an eye might be enough to grab Mor’s attention.

“You’re a persistent one, aren’t you?” Mor grumbled, his irritation clear. Iliana’s world tilted as he reared back on his hind legs, wings beating powerfully, stirring the surrounding trees.

“It doesn’t have to be like this!” Iliana gritted her teeth, knees tightening around his sides as she held on. “I’m not going back without your help.”

“You are not going back at all,” the dragon snarled. “You want to be a rider, elf? Let us see if you’re up to the task.”

All Iliana could do was hold on as Mor beat his wings and rocketed into the skies at breakneck speed. Iliana held fast to the back of his neck, wild winds buffeting her as they soared. The takeoff was not unlike that with the drakes, although it was much, much worse. Iliana felt her stomach drop as they climbed higher and higher through the clouds, the phosphorescent lake at the center of the valley shrinking to a small smudge in a sea of green.

 _Holy gods,_ Iliana thought, blood chilling at the impressive height. Then, _Screw the gods._

“Hold on if you can,” Mor taunted as their ascent came to an end, high above the clouds. Then, without warning, he tucked his wings in tight to his sides and plunged back down toward the earth. 

If Iliana had any breath in her lungs, she would have had the sense to scream. The wind howled in her ears, hair snapping like a dark whip behind her, eyes blurring with tears as they speared toward the valley, streaking through the air like falling stars. Iliana called upon the Light and channeled her magic into her old sword, heating its blade so it slid deeper into the god’s hide. Mor roared and in retaliation, began to spin, spiraling as they fell. If Iliana was not so focused on surviving, her stomach would have upheaved itself.

Close and closer the valley loomed, the lake growing in size. For a moment, it looked as if they might plunge straight into its depths, but then Mor’s wings snapped out, a loud boom echoing through the valley as his wings caught the air like a billowing sail and they banked right. Flying low to the ground, they plowed through the forest and Iliana flattened herself against his hide as branches and splintered pieces of wood whipped by. Her armor took the brunt of the damage, but Iliana felt a bright spark of pain as something struck her temple, blood flowing freely from a gash. 

For a moment, Iliana’s world went dark with unconsciousness, but that single moment was enough. Iliana’s fingers went slack, her grip faltering as she slid back, and then tumbled over the side of Mor’s neck.

In between bouts of consciousness, Iliana saw glimpses of that strange, ethereal sky, and caught the scent of the forest, so familiar, it felt like coming home. Air and pine and wind and blood―

Iliana slammed into something warm and leathery, the impact jarring her out of the darkness, and a set of massive talons curled around her, the movement almost gentle. The ground dropped out from beneath her as the dragon swooped upward, Iliana clutched in his grasp. They circled back to the Great Serpent’s lake and Mor carelessly deposited Iliana on its shimmering shores as he swooped by, her fall cushioned by the sand.

She rolled, sparkling white sand spraying everywhere, a burst of stardust clouding in her wake. When she came to a stop, Iliana shoved herself up to her elbows and spat out grains of sand as she fought to catch her breath and regain her bearings. Bright, ruby-red blood splattered the crystalline sand, a morbidly stark contrast of the beautiful and the macabre.

Fighting through her dazed state of mind, Iliana staggered to her feet and turned in time to see Mor land further down the bank, dunes of sand shifting beneath his considerable weight. As Iliana looked at the Sky Dragon, one of the Old Gods of the elven pantheon, and watched him stalk toward her, she was overcome with exhaustion and the oppressive knowledge that she could not win this battle. Not like this.

Iliana turned to face the forest, then did something she promised herself she would not do today: she ran. Perhaps under the cover of trees, she could lose the beast, find Kade, and get the hells out of here. She would have to try again, _if_ that was even possible.

But Iliana’s hopes of escape were quickly squashed as she heard the thundering beat of wings overhead and the way forward was suddenly engulfed in flames. Iliana skidded to a halt and quickly began to backpedal as Mor landed in front of her, blocking her way. 

“I did not take you for the type to run from a fight, Iliana Nightbloom,” Mor mused aloud as he loomed over her, tepid breath stirring the surrounding branches. He reached behind him and pulled her sword free from the back of his neck and flung it to the ground at her feet, a taunt or a challenge.

“I’m not,” she sneered, even as shame rose in her. “But I came to find my brother and get your help. Fighting you was never my goal. It doesn’t have to be like this, Mor.”

“Mor,” the dragon replied lowly, hissing the name through vicious teeth. “Do you know why my last rider gave me that name? What it means?”

Iliana tentatively picked up her sword, dread pooling in her stomach when the god did not attack. Why would he let her have it back? “No,” Iliana admitted. Up until a few moments ago, she had forgotten the name entirely. After learning it in the Cave, she had been preoccupied with far more pressing issues.

He snarled, “Death.”

Mor lunged. Left with no other choice, Iliana raised her shield as he swung at her with his hand, claws scraping deep grooves into the rounded, silver surface. Iliana unsheathed her sword to charge, but Mor swung again, this time, not aiming to slice her into ribbons but to pluck her sword out of her grasp.

“No!” Iliana cried as he flung it into the burning inferno behind him. Then, before Iliana could leap out of the way, he turned, his broad, spiny tail catching her across the chest. The wind whistled in her ears as she went careening backward and Iliana gasped, her vision flaring white with pain as her back struck a tree. She tumbled to the ground aching all over. Her breathing labored, Iliana shoved herself up to her elbow, blood dribbling from her lips. Something in her was damaged. 

Iliana called upon the Light, using it to quickly heal herself. If she had been back in the Realm of Light, it would have been a shoddy job, one that certainly did not hold up for long without Nia’s assistance. But here, all of Iliana’s wounds fully healed almost within seconds. Her head cleared, pain from the wound she’d taken during the dragon’s flight oozing away.

But it was almost for naught. The moment Iliana felt as if she could breathe again, Mor seized her in his hand and squeezed. Iliana screamed in pain as her ribs cracked under his force, tears springing to her eyes. But before she could be completely crushed or one of her broken ribs could spear her lungs or heart, the dragon flung her away, through the treeline and onto the lakeshore. 

Iliana clamped down on an agonized groan as pain from her wounds caused her vision to momentarily blackout. The moment she could, Iliana painstakingly called upon the Light to mend her broken ribs. They healed although not as quickly as before. And when she shifted, there was some soreness. The damages she was taking were not menial wounds. In the Realm of Light, it would have taken multiple priests to heal her each time. She was starting to flag.

Mor loomed over her, pinning her beneath his talons once more, although this time, he did not seek to only subdue her. Ragged sobs left her mouth as two of his claws dug into her silver armor, the metal groaning before the talons finally slid home. They punctured her plates as if they were made of butter and stabbed into her shoulders, pinning her to the ground. A third one hovered over her heart, pressing firmly into her skin, blood welling up around the wound, although he went no further.

He was playing with her.

Mor pulled back and waited for Iliana to heal herself. It was even slower now, and Iliana’s fingers felt weak around her sword. She was not even sure she could wield it anymore. Her arms felt leaden, like limp weights. Another blow like this and Iliana was not sure she’d be able to heal herself again.

As if sensing she had done all she could, Old God leaned in once more. “Do you still think you can kill me, little one?”

Iliana bared her teeth at him, then through labored breaths, muttered an elvish incantation Tyril taught her long ago. _“L’valathenya remese terana vasquia l’halavanah!”_

_Cleansing Fire._

The flames crackled to life in her hand and Iliana hurled them into Mor’s face. Unlike normal flames, these did not dissipate easily and burned ten times as fiercely. Mor bellowed, head whipping from side to side and wings beating furiously as he beat the flames away. 

Exhausted by the incantation, Iliana rolled over and forced herself up to her knees. She got one foot beneath her, then the other, and swayed. She had just regained her balance when the dragon successfully smothered the Cleansing Fire.

He hissed at her, “You want to play with fire, mortal? I will give you fire.”

Iliana barely twisted away to avoid getting burned to a crisp, but she was weak and slow, and did not completely clear the line of fire. Iliana gasped raggedly, unable to even scream as her left arm burned, fire licking all the way from her fingertips to her shoulder and partway across her collarbone. She collapsed to the ground and convulsed, the heated metal of her armor melting any skin that had not already been burned. Iliana sobbed in fits and starts as she hastily slid off her scorching hot vambrace, burning the fingertips of her other hand. She almost vomited at the sight of her arm, a bloody slab of meat at her side.

Iliana called upon the Light to heal herself, but the best she could do was cool the rest of her armor and form a thin layer of silvery scar tissue over the agonizing burns.

“You have a lot of fire, little one,” Mor said as he towered over her, his amethyst eyes pinning her in place. “I understand why she picked you. If our souls were not so old and our hearts so jaded, you would have been the one to bring us into the Realm of Light once again. If it is any consolation, your brother will not be harmed. Without you, he does not have the means to leave.” Mor opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I am sorry it has to end like this.”

Iliana panted, tears of pain streaming from the corner of her eyes. “It doesn’t!”

“‘Death’ is my name,” Mor replied, his voice a low rumble. “Bestowing it is what I do best. It is who I am.”

Iliana shook her head. “I don’t think it is.”

Mor drew back, amethyst eyes narrowing. “I do not know what you mean.”

“You wanted to leave our realm because it had grown violent and cruel,” Iliana replied, her voice shaky but clear. “You say that bringing death is your purpose, your identity, but it isn’t. Your rider knew that.”

“Bringing death is what made me useful to her,” Mor snapped, his claws raking deep grooves into the sand. “Just as it would to you. Isn’t that why you want to make a deal with me? To bring destruction in war?”

“No.” Iliana could taste the blood on her lips. She shook her head. “I want to make a deal with you to protect my home. Yes, I am asking you to go to war, but any deaths you bring will result in lives saved. I don’t know what kind of life you led with your last rider, but death does not have to be your only purpose in this one.”

Mor looked at her for a long moment, eyes boring into hers. “You believe that.”

Iliana nodded. “Of course.”

For a moment, Iliana thought he might have been swayed, but then Mor replied, “It does not matter. We have resolved to never get involved in the affairs of the Light Realm again.” He straightened to his full height and shook his great head. “I will take no pleasure in bringing your death. But I must do it nonetheless.”

Unable to move, Iliana stared up at the dragon as he bore down on her, opened its mouth, and prepared to burn her into dust. _Not like this,_ her subconscious snarled. _Not like this._

In defiance and fear, Iliana forced her fingers to tighten around the hilt of her old sword and lifted it high overhead as she yelled, yielding a fierce, animalistic war cry. She felt something inside her come to a boiling point and burst, all of her rage pouring out in a flood. The air around her simmered with heat but it was not from the dragon’s fire. Power crackled in Iliana’s veins, white-hot magic surging through her arms until―

Lightning speared out of her fingertips and wrapped around her sword, the metal humming in her hand. There was a split second of silence in which Iliana could feel her heart contract, could see the ember of dragon fire die in Mor’s throat, and watched his amethyst eyes widen, the ice blue of her lightning reflecting in his eyes. Then the muscles of her heart went lax and the lightning speared from the tip of her sword and lashed out, striking the Sky Dragon in the center of its massive, heaving chest.

Mor roared in pain, his fire spewing to the side, melting the sand into diamond-like glass, and Iliana reined her magic back in. She watched as he slammed into the sand at the lake’s edge, slumped to the shallows, and did not get back up. In the wake of her lightning, Iliana’s sword glowed a bluish-white before hairline fractures spiderwebbed across its surface. Then, it shattered apart.

Iliana stared at the remnants of her sword for a few long moments, the pieces of the weapon that had been by her side for more than a decade. It had carried her through so many battles, but first, it had protected her from thugs, thieves, and other bottom-of-the-barrel scum. She had learned everything she knew with this sword, had poured everything she had into it. And now it was broken into a dozen pieces.

Perhaps she was―as Mor had called his last rider―a sentimental fool, but Iliana retrieved the shards and stuffed them into every spare pocket, then stared at her hand, her skin still tingling faintly from the power she had wielded. Lightning, just like the painting from the Cave. 

Painstakingly, Iliana dragged herself to her feet, then limped over to where Mor laid, the glowing water soaking her pants. His chest was heaving, a blackened mark at the center of it, where a brutal circle of raw flesh was slowly healing. His head was in the shallow water, waves lapping against his maw, neck limp, one amethyst eye watching her carefully as she stood over him and pressed the jagged edge of her broken sword to his snout.

“Now,” Iliana snarled, blood dripping down the side of her face, arm still screaming in pain, and bones buzzing with electricity. “I would like to make a deal.”

* * *

Aerin could not believe it. He _could not believe it._

He stalked by the cots of sleeping knights in the infirmary, his fingers worrying at that damned circlet of gold as he glared at the floorboards, occasionally throwing a scathing glance in the Captain’s direction.

Iliana had slipped out _again_ as he slept. But that wasn’t what he was mad about. Not completely, at least. No, he was angry that she had gone back to the Cave without at least telling him, but he even angrier that Ristridin, Morrigan, and Borte all knew about it. The last two had even _enabled her._

“You’re going to wear a groove into those floorboards, boy,” Ristridin remarked from his cot.

Aerin whirled on him, seething. “You do not get to say anything to me right now, Captain. I have half a mind to take your crutch and hurl it over the side of the Aerie and let you crawl around for the day.”

Ristridin lifted an unbothered brow at Aerin’s empty threat. He looked him up and down, then said neutrally, “She’s going to be fine.”

Aerin scowled. “Do you even know what she’s doing?”

“No,” Ristridin replied, shifting against the pillows he sat against. “Do you?”

“No,” Aerin murmured, staring hard at the ground. “And that’s exactly why I’m worried.”

Borte had been frustratingly vague when she told him that Iliana had gone back to the Cave in search of the Old Gods and had off-handedly stated that only she had a chance of being successful, whatever that meant.

 _You can’t help her, prince,_ Borte said as she ushered him out of her workshop, a few moments after he had stormed in, demanding answers. _This is something only she can do, and it must be done alone._

And then she had slammed the door behind him, the deadbolt sliding firmly into place.

Aerin’s scowl only deepened as he resumed his pacing. Behind him, Ristridin sighed. “Do you trust the girl?”

Aerin cast him an incredulous look over his shoulder, perplexed. “Of course I do.”

“Then trust that she knows what she’s doing out there,” Ristridin told him, voice insistent and firm, his dark eyes studying him carefully. “Trust that she will do what she must and return. You have to trust people to make their own decision.”

Aerin exhaled sharply. “By ‘trust’ you mean sit back and let others throw themselves into danger?” he retorted. “Last time I did that, six of your men died. And the last time I did that with Iliana, she nearly died in Whitetower trying to lure the city guard away from me the night I escaped. And _this_ one―” Aerin paused by the foot of Kade’s bed and waved a hand toward his sleeping form. “I sat back in my cell as Kade went off to find the Old Gods on his own. And now he’s here. Like this. And I don’t know how to help him.”

Ristridin looked at him for a few long moments, then sighed heavily. When he spoke, his voice was sympathetic, reflecting an understanding that only a leader such as himself could possess. “You don’t like to sit by idly, Aerin. I understand that. But one thing you must learn―sooner rather than later―is that you cannot protect everyone.”

“I…” Aerin started to protest, but paused, realizing he had no logic to counter that. He shook his head. “I can try.”

Ristridin pressed his lips into a grim line and shook his head. “You will fail.”

Before Aerin could reply, the door to the infirmary swung open and Morrigan stepped through, coppery hair plaited back, dressed once more in her armor, although reinforcements had been added to her suit. Her silver skull mask dangled from her gloved fingers. She glanced between Ristridin and Aerin, arching a brow. “Still beating your wings against the walls? Borte thought you might be.”

Aerin inhaled deeply, folding his hands behind his back “How can we help you, Morrigan?”

“I need you to follow me,” Morrigan replied, holding the door open with her foot. “Borte wants me to bring you.”

Aerin frowned. “Bring me where?”

“To the war council.” Morrigan jerked her chin toward the footbridge that led to the greater part of the Aerie. “Borte and Killian are making one last appeal to the other Wing Leaders before our Clan mobilizes to protect Morella.”

“Mobilizes to protect Morella?” Aerin blinked, glancing at Ristridin, whose brows lowered. The Captain reached for his crutch and began to haul himself out of bed. He turned back to Morrigan and shook his head. “I was not aware of this.”

“Yes, well, as you know, a lot has happened overnight,” Morrigan replied dryly, waving her hand impatiently. “Come. All will be explained at the council. Your companions are already there.”

“All of them?” Aerin questioned, fingers tightening around the ring in his palm. 

Morrigan met his gaze coolly, understanding the implication. “No,” she answered. “Not all.”

Aerin frowned and, left with no other choice, slipped his ring back onto his middle finger as he followed Morrigan out of the sickbay, slowing slightly to accommodate the still-healing wound in Ristridin’s leg.

Morrigan led them to a circular shaped building Aerin had never entered before. Inside, the building was structured like an arena, with the rows of seats surrounding a stage at the bottom. The space was dark, illuminated only by the blue glow of runestones, all of the curtains drawn over the windows. 

Rows of seats lined the curved walls, most of them filled by members of the Avian Kingdom. Some of them, Aerin recognized due to their armor, were from Killian and Morrigan’s Clan, likely high ranking officers of the garrison―if the Avian Clans had such a structure. Aerin knew that all species had a different approach to military organization and strategy―elven structure was dependent on strength and skill in magic, human soldiers were sorted by affinity and tactician-led, and of structure or strategy, the orcs had none. He made a mental note to ask Killian how the Avian forces operated later.

Aerin assumed the rest of the audience was composed of members of the other eight Clans. Eight people Aerin guessed were the Wing Leaders sat on the ground level of the forum, as well as the rest of the Morellian party, and at the middle of the central platform, stood Borte and Killian. Behind them sat some sort of small, reflective pool of water, which was illuminated by glowing runestones. 

_No, not just any pool,_ Aerin realized. _A scrying pool._

Killian was in the middle of some sort of speech, no doubt another rallying cry to fight against the Empire, but Aerin’s attention was inexplicably drawn to the scrying pool Borte stood over. Aerin had read all about scrying pools―with a bit of magic, they could be used to show visions, real or otherwise, depending on the type of magic used and the will of the mage. They could show dreams, memories, and premonitions, but they could also reflect real events as they happened. And right now, the scrying pool showed the familiar plain of Cragheart, a sight Aerin knew well. And atop that field, stood thousands of dark soldiers.

Aerin’s breathing was loud and fast in his ears. _They’re here._

“The Morellians are our neighbors,” Killian was saying as he addressed his audience, voice loud and authoritative. “Look around,” he implored, waving his hand toward Mal, Nia, Imtura, and Tyril, who sat amongst the Wing Leaders. “They need your help. These are the faces of peoples who are to face a darkness unlike any we have ever seen before. How can we, in good conscience, sit back and let them face the blight of the Empire alone?” Killian paused, taking a few moments to stare at the scrying pool, drawing the eyes of his audience to it as well. At the sight of it, the crowd began to murmur. Killian waited for the voices to quiet down to a soft hush before continuing.

“Morella and the Avian Kingdom have not had ties in millennia,” he stated calmly as he strode to a nearby table and picked up his silver mask. “Although it is important to consider that perhaps it is time for that to change. It may be time yet for our people to emerge from the mist and show the realm that the Avian Kingdom is everything the legends claimed it to be and more. In addition to that, the Morellians will remember that we came to their aid.” Killian’s slate-green eyes scanned the crowd before settling on Aerin’s. “I have been told,” he continued smoothly, maintaining eye contact, “that an alliance with Morella would yield many benefits and opportunities for our people.”

 _Iliana,_ Aerin thought, although he forced himself to nod. Whatever promises she made, Aerin would make sure they were kept, no matter how large. His kingdom did not have the upper hand in this negotiation―they would be fortunate to receive any help, no matter the cost.

Killian nodded in return before facing the council again. “But I understand if those reasons are not enough to sway your hearts. However, if you will not fight for _them_ , then fight because they are the vanguards in a war against a darkness that seeks to smother all light in our realm. Our kingdom is great, but we cannot deny that Morella is the last bastion of a grand, diverse, and well-learned civilization. If Morella falls, it will only be a matter of time before the Empire of Ash comes searching for us, and then, we will truly be alone.”

“We will not be intimidated into joining this war, Dane,” snapped one of the Wing Leaders, an older man cloaked in deep, plum purple.

“It is not intimidation,” replied another, a large, barrel-chested man with greying auburn hair. Killian and Morrigan’s father. “These are facts.”

“It is _fear-mongering!”_

“If the truth is terrifying, then perhaps it must be,” Morrigan snapped from where she stood atop the stairs with Aerin, her mask clutched in a white-knuckled grip, the only indicator of her carefully leashed temper. Immediately, every set of eyes swiveled to Morrigan Dane. Every set of eyes, except Borte’s.

“I think,” Borte said as she held Aerin’s gaze, her voice deep and grating, stern in a way Aerin had never heard it. She did not speak with the irritation or haughtiness that she usually did, but rather with cold and morbid wisdom. Her yellow eyes looked especially unnatural, almost feline, in the light of the runestones. “We should let the Valleros prince speak. It is, after all, his kingdom we are discussing.”

Aerin’s chest restricted around his heart, hands going cold and clammy as everyone’s attention now shifted to him. In the sea of people, Aerin met Tyril’s gaze, the only member of their company that might have any tact with navigating a speech such as this. But it was not Tyril’s council and support that he needed, nor was it even Ristridin’s. What he needed could not be granted by any of the people here.

“Go, Prince Aerin,” Ristridin murmured and Aerin forced himself to descend the stairs toward the stage, but all Aerin could think was, _I am not ready._

He had years of diplomacy under his belt, and this journey had put his skills to the test, forcing him to weasel the party’s way out of difficult situations with only his words and quick thinking. But it was one thing to fool or distract a single ruler in order to escape, or assure a company of warriors that they were not a threat. It was an entirely different matter to address a war council and the warriors of a foreign kingdom, to rally them for war. 

That was a king’s job, or a general’s, like Killian, and despite Ristridin’s faith, Aerin was not quite there yet. He had coveted being king for so long, but he had forgotten how ill-prepared he was in all of the little things, such as giving a simple but impromptu speech, that should not have mattered for the position, but did. Aerin might not have been the Prince of Shadow any longer, but he had grown used to standing forgotten in the dark.

Aerin reached the bottom of the stairs and realized he still had nothing to say. His kingdom would be defenseless because he had failed here today. Palms sweaty and mouth dry, Aerin turned, gazing out at the sea of unfamiliar faces, the hearts that were waiting to be convinced.

“I―”

Aerin was cut off by a loud, screeching roar that shook the very foundation of the building he stood in. Exclamations of alarm and confusion rumbled through the crowd and perplexed, Aerin looked around the room, searching for any clue that might tell him what the hells that awful noise was. Aerin found his answer when he met Borte’s yellow stare.

Aerin sucked in a sharp breath, then before anyone could stop him, he hurtled up the steps, then burst out of the front doors to the building and into the daylight, which was so blindingly bright in contrast to the darkness of the forum. He had barely taken a step outside when he was nearly knocked off his feet by another familiar figure.

Aerin staggered back, his eyes wide, and caught himself against the doorframe. Behind him, Aerin could hear other people starting to exit the forum, but his attention was wholly consumed by the impossible sight before him. “Kade?”

“Prince Aerin.” Kade looked equally shocked, although Aerin doubted it was because of him. After all, Aerin was not the one who had just suddenly woken from a coma.

Aerin shook his head in disbelief, all of those memories of being trapped in that cold, dark cell slamming into him like a wall of adamant. He could not help but think how much more unbearable those months would have been had he been all alone, had he not had his friend to keep him company. Aerin knew he had a long list of regrets, and on that list was the simple fact that he had not been a better friend to Kade. He would not make that mistake again.

Aerin did not care that they had never so much as spoken about anything beyond books and the Shadow Realm, or that they had hated each other, or that Kade had once punched him. He pulled the other young man into a hug.

Kade let out an alarmed, “Oh!” Then, he awkwardly patted Aerin’s back. 

“You’re awake,” Aerin breathed, a startled, boyish laugh bursting out of him as he pulled away. “You woke up. But… how?”

“She got me out,” Kade replied, tilting his head back as he scanned the bits of sky visible through the gaps in the tree’s canopy. “She brought me back. I came here to find…” His tone grew distant, eyes unfocused. “She did… She’s somewhere…”

Instantly, every single one of Aerin’s nerves went alight. He knew who ‘she’ was, and he had a feeling he knew what she had done.

Her name was soundless on his lips as another cry rattled the thick branches they stood upon, and Aerin was suddenly jostled aside as the attendees of the war council, including the Wing Leaders, all rushed outside to see what the commotion was. All throughout the Aerie, people stuck their heads out of windows and doors, some curious, some afraid, to see what the source of that noise was.

They did not have to wait long to find their answer.

There were two loud noises― _B_ _oom! Boom!_ And then the canopy of the tree parted as a dark, massive shape flew into the Aerie. Aerin saw the great, leathery wings and the impenetrable hide, mottled crimson and black. He took in the triangular head, the jagged rows of spikes, and the deadly claws that were each bigger than his entire leg.

Everyone in the Aerie watched, in fear or in awe or in both, as the Sky Dragon, the deadliest of the Old Gods, landed on the ramparts of the city in the sky, with Iliana Nightbloom on his back.


	32. The Rider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rider, Herald of the Gods.

Iliana stared down at the people assembled around her, civilians and warriors of the Avian Kingdom. They gaped and cowered in shock, in fear, and in veneration, at the sight of the Old God, the Sky Dragon, beneath her.

_ Not just me,  _ Mor said into her head, his voice deep and ancient.  _ You, as well. You are now part of this legend. _

Iliana bristled. In the span of a single day, she had both Kade and an Old God in her mind. That would take some getting used to. But later. She would deal with that later.

For now… Iliana scanned the crowd until her gaze fell across a band of winged men and women, the distinctive colors of their cloaks setting them apart from the people of the Dane Clan. The Wing Leaders.

Iliana narrowed her eyes at the Wing Leaders, baring teeth. “Well?” she demanded, her voice a snarl. She knew she must have been a sight, with dried blood crusting the side of her face and punctures in her armor. “You know who this is. Do I have your support now? Will you fly with us or will you cower here in the mist?”

As if to hammer her point home, Mor unleashed another earth-rattling roar, startling the surrounding crowd. Almost immediately, the Wing Leaders nodded in wordless agreement.

Iliana smirked as she crooned beneath her breath, “Good of you to put on a show.”

_ To a long and fruitful partnership, _ Mor replied dryly.

“The time to go is now,” Iliana stated, from atop the Sky Dragon’s back, using her newfound power to project her voice across the Aerie. 

Something had changed in her since she crossed into the Old Gods’ realm. It was as if channeling the ornery magic there had exposed a thousand capacities for power within her. And ever since she had sealed the bargain with Mor, Iliana’s connection to magic had only grown. Calling upon it had become much easier and less exhausting. A brief exploration had revealed she could do more than wield the Light or the basic elemental magic she knew before. Just an added perk of sharing her life with a god, she supposed. 

“The Empire has breached our realm,” Iliana continued sharply. “The first wave of their army will move upon Whitetower soon. We cannot afford to wait any longer.”

“We aren’t prepared to go to war,” one of the other Wing Leaders replied hesitantly. “Unlike the Danes, we will need time to gather our forces.”

“Then you better start preparing,” someone said sternly and Iliana turned to see Aerin, standing near the entrance to a circular-shaped building. His face was pale, likely from surprise, but there was no mistaking the relief that was evident in his features.

Iliana wanted desperately to dismount and run to him, to throw herself into his arms in front of everyone and possibly cry over everything that had happened and everything that had yet to happen. But she clamped down on the urge. They had an audience and as much as she hated it, she had appearances to keep. Even Iliana, with her limited experience in leadership, knew that she could not look soft-hearted while calling these people to war.

And behind Aerin―Kade. Iliana nearly sagged in relief. It had worked.

Iliana gripped the spines that lined Mor’s neck tighter as she narrowed his eyes. “You heard him. Prepare for battle.”

“Your conditions have been met, Wing Leaders,” Killian said from the doorway of the building. He was dressed in his full armor, silver plates gleaming in the sunlight. “We will see you at Cragheart.”

Iliana waited until the other Wing Leaders and their officers left, presumably to rally their forces, before she slid off Mor’s side. She turned back and patted the dragon’s flank. “I will call for you when it is time,” she said softly so that only he could hear. “Be ready to go within a few hours. It appears that the Dane Clan’s forces are already planning to leave. We should not be far behind.”

Mor nodded his massive head, shifting to leave, but before he could, Iliana added, “Thank you.”

The dragon paused, amethyst eyes meeting hers for a few long moments. Then, without another word, he departed. Iliana watched him go, his broad wings carrying him in wide sweeping arcs over the rainforest, then turned to face the others. Almost instantly, the people around her backed away, granting her a wide berth as she began to make her way over to where Aerin, Kade, her friends, Captain Ristridin, the Dane twins, and Borte had gathered. 

Already, the whispers had begun. As Iliana walked through the crowd, she could hear slivers of conversation, reverent murmurs of “blessed,” “Realm-Walker,” “Champion,” and of course, “the Rider.”

Iliana could feel Aerin’s gaze burning into her as she approached, sensed the questions he wanted to ask―that they  _ all _ wanted to ask―but she turned her focus first to Borte. “You were right. About the Cave being the entrance to the realm of the gods.”

“Of course I was,” she huffed. “I thought I told you to bring the Old Gods back,” Borte remarked, eyeing the dragon in the sky. “That is just one.”

Iliana scowled. Of course, the old bat could never be satisfied. “This one will have to do,” she replied flatly. “The other gods will have no part in our war. I nearly got myself killed wrangling this one.” 

Borte huffed, although there was a glimmer of pride and respect in her eyes. “Fighting with only one god is not ideal.” She shook her head, gnarled hands gripping a wooden staff, and in that moment, she actually looked as ancient and weary as she claimed to be. Her gravelly voice was unexpectedly full of sorrow as she murmured, “This war will not be easy.”

“Yeah, well, when is war ever easy?” Iliana snapped before taking a deep breath, curbing her irritation. “Let’s just focus on getting through this first wave. We can figure out how to deal with the rest later.” She met Killian’s gaze and dipped her chin. “This situation is not what we hoped for, but at least it got the Avian Kingdom’s support.”

Iliana’s next words were cut off by a sharp gasp. “Your arm!”

Nia rushed forth, her small hand gingerly lifting Iliana’s left arm. It was warped with silvery scar tissue that spread all the way from her fingertips, beneath her loosely strapped vambrace, and disappeared beneath the singed remnant of her sleeve and shoulder plates. 

Threep leaned over Nia’s shoulder, his small face contorted into an expression of pity. “These scars…”

“Burns,” Iliana replied, gently pulling her arm away and tucking it behind her back. “From the dragon’s fire. I told you I had to fight for Mor’s help.”

“Mor?” Aerin asked, raising a dark brow, although his attention was still wholly absorbed by Iliana, his eyes roaming over the jagged holes in her armor, the blood crusting in her hairline. 

“The dragon.” Iliana waved her other hand toward the skies where Mor presumably roamed. “It means―” She hesitated and glanced upward. “It doesn’t matter what it means.”

When Iliana turned back to her friends, she realized that they were looking at her with the same degree of awe and bewilderment as they did the dragon. She sighed. “I suspect you have questions.”

* * *

A few hours later, after a short nap, a quick supper, and a brief trip to the armory to replace her ruined armor, Iliana sat atop a tall platform that Killian had fittingly named the Crow’s Nest as she overlooked the great rainforest of Rysoth. In the distance, flying west, were the combined aerial forces of the Avian Kingdom, small dots shrinking toward the horizon. Soon, once all of the necessary preparations had been made, Iliana and her companions would join them.

Iliana sat with her back pressed to Mor’s leathery flank, his body like a furnace beside her. They hid out on the Crow’s Nest, enjoying a rare moment of peace as everyone else scrambled to prepare for their return to Morella. The silence that had lapsed between them was almost companionable, the memory of their fight already in the past, although Iliana suspected it would be quite some time before she could consider Mor to be her friend. 

She did not know where the dragon had disappeared to while she filled the others in on what had happened, but when she called upon the Old God, he returned. Iliana hated to think that perhaps it was because she was the only thing he knew, the only guaranteed companion he would have here in the long years of his service.

Iliana sighed heavily as she idly tossed an apple between her hands, mulling over her conversation with the others. With Kade’s assistance, she had informed them of her journey through the Veil and into the other realm.

_ “The realm of the Old Gods. So you traveled to Elhalas,” Tyril had breathed in awe, his eyes wide. He leaned closer, arms folded across his chest. “It exists.” _

_ “El-what-as?” Imtura asked, confused. _

_ “Elhalas,” Kade replied. “The Land of the Gods, believed to be the final resting place for all elves. A place where their ancestors live on.” _

_ “I went to the Land of the Gods, yes,” Iliana said slowly, carefully. “But it was not Elhalas. There were no spirits there. It is just another realm. Strange, but… not an afterlife.” _

_ “I see…” Tyril nodded slowly, his shoulders sagging.  _

_ Iliana opened her mouth to comfort him, but she did not quite know what to say. She had not been raised to believe in Elhalas as Tyril and the other Undermount elves had. Iliana had no idea how she would take the news that the afterlife she believed in, that she had hoped for, was false. “Perhaps it is somewhere else,” she offered hopefully. “There must be something. We did speak to Farin, after all.” _

_ “Perhaps,” was all Tyril replied. _

She had also told them about her increased capacity for magic, which had been unveiled during her time in the other realm.

_ As Killian led them into the dark interior of the forum to speak in private, Iliana had flicked her fingers, conjuring a swirling ball of fire to illuminate the room. _

_ “Holy hells,” Imtura swore, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the light. “What kind of magic is that?” _

_ “Elemental,” Tyril mused, his eyes sliding from the whirlwind of flame to Iliana. He scrutinized her carefully, brows knitted together. “But you have never conjured something so large. And stable. Even the strongest and most skilled battlemages need some time or even incantations to do such a thing.” _

_ “Guess I learned fast,” Iliana replied flatly as she unhooked her ruined shield from her back and dropped it to the ground. “One of the fortunate parts of the bargain I made with Mor.” _

And of course, she had told them about the deal she had made. And as expected, that conversation had not gone over well. 

_ Aerin’s eyes had narrowed. “Bargain?” _

_ Fortunately, Kade answered for her. “The Old Gods are made of magic that is too wild to be controlled in this realm. That magic needs a tether to bind itself to, something of this realm. Iliana made a deal to be that tether.” _

_ “All magic has a cost,” Aerin said, voice deathly quiet as his gaze slid to Iliana’s. “What was yours?” _

_ Half of my life, _ Iliana thought as she stared across the rainforest, toward the Avian forces, toward home.

Iliana could still picture their reactions. Nia had been appalled, Threep had been disapproving, Imtura had looked as if she were about to punch her fist through the wall, Mal had seethed, Tyril had sat silently with an impossibly despondent expression, and Aerin had simply looked at her blankly as if he, the one who always understood everything, did not know what to make of her.

_ “If we survive this, I’ll still live just as long as the rest of you,” Iliana had said in an attempt to quell them. For now, that had worked to pacify all of her friends, all of them it seemed, except for Tyril. Her closest friend, who, with this deal, she had left to face a century alone. _

Iliana shook her head, clearing those thoughts from her mind. It would do her no good to dwell on any of that. This story was far from over. Come tomorrow evening, she would be back in Morella, fighting to make sure that was true.

“What was this realm like?” Iliana asked, breaking the silence that had endured for the better part of the hour. “When you were last here?”

“On the surface, the realm appears to be the same,” Mor replied, his voice a low rumble that Iliana felt travel through her spine. “But in feeling, it is unrecognizable.”

“Because of the magic?” Iliana guessed, recalling the Watcher’s words to her outside of the Empire’s camp in the Shadow Realm. “It’s fleeting. Even here in Rysoth, it is not as strong as it once was.”

“Exactly.” The puff of air that left the dragon’s nostrils seemed almost regretful. “The realm as I remember it was wild and untamed. The magic was livelier. And the creatures I knew… I suspect the likes of them have not been seen for a long time.”

“Your rider,” Iliana began, her brow furrowing. “She was not an elf?” The elves were the oldest species she knew of, except perhaps dwarves, although accounts often conflicted on that matter.

There was a low groaning sound, like the creaking hull of a ship, that Iliana suspected might have been a sigh. “No. The empire of your people was only just beginning to rise when she fell.”

“Do you miss her?” Iliana questioned, tilting her head to look upon the Old God’s face, his massive head settled atop the wooden floorboards of the Crow’s Nest. “Your last rider?”

Mor’s eyes narrowed as he turned to look at her. “You mistake me for being sentimental. We do not feel the way you do. Passing years only serve to show the insignificance of emotions for things that are ultimately evanescent.” He lifted his head. “You think me cold for saying so.”

Did she? Perhaps. But in a way, Iliana also understood what he was saying. To live so long, to witness so much… eventually, all the memories would blend together and importance would be lost. Although Iliana found she did not quite believe that this ancient being before her did not have the capacity to care, or that certain memories, old hurts, did not linger longer than they should have.

Instead, Iliana asked, “You aren’t truly a god, are you? Just a being from another realm that the elves perceived to be one and worshipped.”

“Worship makes a god,” Mor replied sagely, his deep voice pensive. “It is not the other way around. It is the people who determine who they believe to be gods, and that belief will always be greater than the being behind it. Am I a real god? I cannot say, for that is for the stories to decide. If I am, I need not prove it. Those who try to proclaim themselves a god are either mad or lying.”

“Worship makes you more,” Iliana mused, tilting her head back against his leathery side and gazing at the clouds that drifted by overhead. “The New Gods of the Shared Pantheon were just elves who had given their lives to the Great War. The survivors were the ones to elevate them to godhood. They granted the titles.”

“Exactly. War breeds fear. Fear breeds a yearning for salvation and a place for people to lay their faith.” Mor turned away, dragging his head across the wooden floor. “I suppose I should consider myself fortunate. You display a level of thoughtfulness that is… bearable, Iliana Nightbloom.”

Iliana smirked. She expected that was the closest thing she would ever get from receiving a real compliment from the god. “Thank you.”

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you. One would think that finding a single woman and her gigantic dragon would be easier than it actually was…”

Iliana looked up, catching the uneaten apple in her hand as she stood. “Aerin! You… you’re wearing armor?”

He was indeed. Aerin stood at the top of the ladder that led to the Crow’s Nest, dressed in simple armor. It was dented and tarnished in some places, but otherwise, it seemed fairly sound. And oddly enough, the make was distinctly Morellian. Borte must have scrounged it up from her cache of gathered belongings. Iliana wondered if the dwarf woman was some sort of thief. Although she supposed that if Borte was, she certainly would not admit to it.

“We are going into war, are we not?” Aerin replied, his posture relaxed and lithe, although Iliana did not miss the way his gaze flicked to Mor every so often or the fact that he gave the god a wide berth. “I hope you aren’t going to bar me from fighting.”

As much as she wished she could keep Aerin out of the fray―keep all of her friends out of it, truly―Iliana knew she couldn’t. Not only would their skills be useful in a battle that already seemed doomed, but it was their homeland that was at stake as well. They had a right to defend it.

“I won’t.” Iliana shook her head as she added teasingly, “I have no authority over the Prince of Morella, heir to the throne.”

Aerin rolled his eyes and huffed, even as his lips twisted wryly. “Some might argue that you do. A few hours, and you have already become something of a legend in the Aerie. The Rider, Herald of the Gods…” He folded his arms behind his back as he leaned against the wooden railing that bordered the Crow’s Nest. “The Prince of Morella hardly compares.”

Iliana glanced sidelong at Mor, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. It seemed that their early conversation was unnervingly relevant to this one. Iliana shook her head, opting to change the topic. “Any word from your father?”

Aerin sighed heavily, shaking his head as his playful demeanor melted away to something somber. “No. Killian’s messenger still hasn’t returned.”

Iliana nodded slowly. She had suspected that would be the case. “What exactly did you tell him?”

Aerin raked one of his hands through his hair, fingers snagging on his curls. “I told him about why we left and what our goal was: finding your brother. The tricky part was trying to explain how that morphed into preparing for a war with the Empire of Ash and hunting for the Old Gods.” He sighed heavily, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “And then I begged him to call in Morella’s standing army.”

“Do you think he will?”

“Honestly? No,” Aerin replied wearily, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned more heavily against the railing, as if this conversation alone was draining him of his strength. “Why would he? I have done nothing but lie to him. He might have held out hope for me to become his heir, but we all know that I am a long way from earning that honor back. And on top of that… well, you have to admit that our story is rather unbelievable. Ristridin himself would not have believed it had he not been here to witness everything unfold.”

Aerin shook his head, unfolding his arms as he strode toward the other edge of the lookout, notably as far from Mor as possible. He rapped his knuckles against the wooden railing as he slowly paced. “I also… I also explained everything, more or less. How I felt growing up, how I got involved with the Shadow Court, why I did what I did…” Aerin grimaced. “I hope he doesn’t think I’m trying to make excuses. It was never meant to be an excuse, just… an apology, I suppose.”

He sighed, his jaw working as he stared hard at the wooden floorboards. “In hindsight, that may have been the straw that broke the voxper’s back. Of all the things I said, that is likely by far the most inconceivable.” Aerin pulled his hand away from the railing, folding it once again behind his back. “No. I do not expect him to believe me. That letter…” He shook his head. “It’s just another series of tall tales from my lying mouth.”

Iliana frowned, her heart twinging in sympathy. “But it isn’t. Everything you just said, it’s the truth.”

Aerin smiled wryly. “This time. As you know, that has not always been the case with me. You might call it a rare occurrence.”

“You aren’t that person anymore,” she replied firmly, her hands balling into fists. She hated his tone, the anger she knew he still sometimes harbored for himself.

“I will always be  _ that  _ person, Iliana,” he replied, his voice cool but resigned. “That is a simple fact. No matter what happens, that part of my history cannot be erased. I can’t just discard that part of me because I do not like it or it no longer fits. The only thing I can do is hope to be that person, but also more.” At her expression, he smiled slightly. “While you were gone, I had quite a bit of time to myself to think.”

Iliana shook her head. She couldn't even begin to imagine how many circles Aerin’s mind ran in when he dove deep into his thoughts. “Regardless. That’s all just semantics to me. If we’re going by that logic, then you already are that person and more. Your father must see the sincerity of your words.”

“At least one of us confident,” Aerin murmured, his gaze sliding from Iliana to Mor, who still laid atop the Crow’s Nest, content to pay them no attention. “Either way, if Father did not heed my advice or the letter did not reach him…” Aerin’s shoulder sagged. “Then we must be prepared for the very real possibility that Whitetower will have already fallen by the time we arrive.”

Iliana frowned. “Do you really think that will happen?”

“I hope that it will not,” Aerin replied, turning to face the view of the rainforest once more. The lines of his shoulders were rigid with tension. “But the odds… Well, if you want the odds, Mal can tell you, since he claims to be an expert on them. But I think that he and I will be in agreement that they are not good. However, if, for whatever reason, the Empire has not yet attacked and Whitetower still stands, then I suspect that I will have to convince Father to raise the army in person. Hopefully, having Ristridin with me will make what I have to say more compelling.” 

His lips twisted bitterly as he glanced back at her. “Admittedly, Father and the court have a bit of a track record of dismissing my appeals, although I’m not sure how they will be able to do so with an army knocking at their door.”

_ Speaking of Ristridin…  _ Iliana nodded her chin toward Aerin’s sword belt. “You still have the Captain’s blade.”

Aerin’s brows creased before he tore his gaze from Iliana’s and looked down, realizing what she was talking about. “Oh. Yes.” He laid his hand atop the pommel and shrugged. “He insisted that I keep it for now. He took another from the Aerie’s armory.”

“So he will be coming with us?”

“Yes, but just him.” Aerin nodded. “He took another trip to Borte’s workshop. His leg is completely healed now, bone fully mended. But the other men won’t be. They’re still in no shape to fight.”

“That’s good, at least. That Ristridin is coming with you,” Iliana reasoned, drumming her fingers atop the pommel of the Blade of Sol. “Hopefully, it will make your… return easier.”

“Yes,” Aerin murmured, his jaw tensing as his perturbed gaze traveled to the western horizon. “Hopefully.”

Iliana studied him for a few moments, taking the way the afternoon light softened the sharp edges of his face and gilded his lashes, his eyes as bright as a summer forest on the brink of autumn, and suddenly, she was struck with another image. Aerin, in the attic of a small, quaint cottage in the heart of Whitetower’s Temple District, gazing through the window at the city that wanted him imprisoned―or worse. That had been at the very beginning of this journey, before any of them truly had any idea of what was to befall them and their kingdom, before Iliana had stopped seeing Aerin as her enemy, or at best, an untrustworthy ally. Looking back, Iliana knew that there was no way she could have ever prepared for just how important he would become to her.

Iliana’s thoughts were abruptly derailed when a heavy breath left Mor’s nostrils and Aerin startled slightly, retreating toward the ladder. Iliana smiled slightly and shook her head. “I believe introductions are in order.”

Iliana crossed to Aerin and gently took his hand, guiding him closer to Mor, who lifted his massive head, eyes narrowing, talons digging into the floorboards. She rolled her eyes, clucking her tongue in disapproval. “Ease up, beast,” she chided, bringing Aerin to stand before the Sky Dragon. “If you’re going to be sticking with me, you should get used to Aerin.” She glanced sidelong at him. “Wherever he is… Well, there’s a good chance we’ll be there, too.”

Aerin lifted his brows at her, a hint of a blush creeping across his cheeks that Iliana chose to ignore for now. Iliana lifted their hands, pressing Aerin’s palm to the top of Mor’s snout. The dragon huffed but begrudgingly let her. “Aerin, this is Mor. He’s not going to hurt you.”

Aerin glanced hesitantly at Iliana before letting his fingers relax against the dragon’s muzzle. He cleared his throat. “Hello.”

Mor let out another huff, although this one was less irritated and more amused. “At least  _ he  _ has manners.”

Aerin jerked back, his eyes widening. “I―you―he speaks!”

Iliana grinned, pulling their hands away and twining her fingers with his. “He  _ is _ a god, Aerin. Or,” she added, subtly meeting Mor’s amethyst gaze, “something like that.”

Aerin stared at the dragon in awe for a few moments, digesting this new information. At last, he leveled Iliana with a flat look as she smiled at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” Iliana admitted with a shrug. “It’s always a joy to see you be amazed. First with the unicorn. Then the moonblooms, the drakes, and the Aerie’s lifts. I wonder what will come next.”

“I’m sure that whatever it is, you will be responsible for it,” Aerin mumbled, returning his attention to Mor. “I can’t even imagine what Baldur would think of all of this.”

“I imagine he would try to fight Mor―which I do not recommend by the way,” Iliana mused, resting her free hand on her hip. “I’m sure Baldur would love to mount his head over his fireplace, right next to the drakna queen’s.” At this, a low rumble rolled through the dragon’s chest. 

Aerin stepped back cautiously. “I think, in this instance, he might actually prefer to observe. Wisely. He had no interest in hunting the white wolves of Vishanti. I think he only ever wanted to kill creatures he knew he could best. Or the ones he did not wish to understand, either out of ignorance or sheer stubbornness.” 

Aerin frowned, momentarily lost in thought. Then he shook his head and tightened his fingers around Iliana’s. He nodded politely, if not a little stiffly to Mor before he led Iliana a comfortable distance away, not quite out of earshot, but Iliana suspected that the dragon had zero interest in their conversation anyway. They leaned against the wooden railing of the Crow’s Nest, overlooking the Aerie and the lower canopy of Rysoth. 

Iliana drew in a deep breath of cool air, letting it fill her lungs as she reveled in this last bit of respite. She turned to Aerin, about to comment on the view when she saw that he was staring at their linked hands. Iliana’s brow creased. “Something wrong?”

The corners of Aerin’s mouth turned down as he gingerly lifted Iliana’s hand, studying the silver scars that twisted along the length of her arm. “Have you asked Nia to heal it yet?”

Iliana nodded, sighing heavily. “I did. And, well, technically, it  _ is _ healed already. I did a real messy job during the fight with what little energy I could muster at the time, so now I’m left with this. If I want to get rid of the scars, I’d have to get rid of the skin, first―all of it―before it can be rehealed.” She shrugged. “But that would take time, and we don’t exactly have a lot of that. I know it’s ugly, but it’s just cosmetic, I guess.”

Aerin shook his head and gently raised her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of her knuckles before holding her palm to his chest. She could not feel it through the silver of his breastplate, but Iliana knew how his heart would beat beneath her touch. “It makes no difference to me.”

Iliana smiled at him, her weariness and exhaustion melting away into something soft, warm, and golden. Iliana felt his chest falter slightly beneath her palm, watched his face slacken into something akin to innocent wonder as he gazed back at her. At that moment, he looked so open, honest, and trusting, she wanted nothing more but to fall into him and hide away somewhere safe until the end of time.

Aerin cleared his throat, shaking himself out of his apparent daze as he squeezed Iliana’s wrist. “I actually came here to tell you that everyone and everything is prepared. We’re ready to go when you are. But,” he added, tightening his fingers around her wrist when Iliana moved to pull away. “First, I wanted to thank you.”

Iliana’s brows furrowed. “Thank me? For what?”

“For what?” Aerin echoed incredulously. “For giving up, what, a hundred and fifty years of your life? All to gain this ally? I cannot even be mad at you for that because what you have done… it is invaluable, Iliana.” He shook his head sadly, voice full of regret. “I wish I could take that burden from you. It isn’t fair that you should be the one to pay for protecting my kingdom.”

Iliana frowned. He could not seriously be blaming himself for her own decision, one she was just as motivated to make. “It’s my kingdom too, Aerin.”

“I… yes.” Aerin dropped his head, his gaze falling to her hand on his chest as his thumb brushed over the back of her knuckles. His expression had lightened some, thoughtful although still troubled. “I suppose it is.”

“But?” Iliana prompted, sensing there was still more on his mind.

“But,” Aerin continued almost ruefully, giving her a knowing look. “If I am ever going to lead the kingdom, I should be the one that pays for its safety. What kind of king lets other people sacrifice so much on his behalf?”

“The kind of king who can rely on the people he trusts, Aerin,” Iliana replied, her fingers curling against his armor. “On his friends.”

Aerin arched a brow at that. “‘On his friends,’” he echoed, tilting his head as he studied Iliana’s face, a new, unplaceable emotion crossing his features. Aerin glanced toward Mor, then shook his head and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling Iliana closer and lowering his voice so that only she could hear. “I think you and I both know that you are a great deal more than that to me. Unless I have not been very good at showing that. And if that is the case, I hope you can forgive me.”

Iliana felt her heart flutter in her chest.  _ You’ve gotten brave, _ she thought again, although she certainly did not mind. Not in the slightest. Her responding smile was warm, coy, and admittedly, a bit nervous. “You have been,” she murmured, draping her other arm over his shoulder. “But I would not mind if you told me. Just to be clear.”

Aerin huffed a laugh, his lips curling into a smile that faltered almost instantly, his expression melting into something softer, more serious, as his gaze flicked between her eyes. “Iliana, I don’t know what is going to happen tomorrow. And before we go…” His throat bobbed, his fingers flexing against her spine. “Before we go… Iliana, I―”

“Hey! Landrats!”

Iliana startled, the moment between her and Aerin shattered as they turned to find Imtura, peering over the top of the ladder, giving no indication that she even cared about the massive beast that lay only a few paces from her head. “The goal was to  _ find _ Iliana,” she berated him, waving a hand between them. “Not make goo-goo eyes at her! Let’s get a move on, yeah? Home’s waiting.”

Iliana sighed. As much as she hated to admit it, Imtura was right. They could not afford to waste any more time. Aerin pulled away first, looking at once relieved and disappointed to have been interrupted as he said, “We’ll talk more later.”

Iliana nodded, slipping her hand into his. “Later,” she agreed. Then she turned to Imtura, drawing in a deep breath to steady herself. “Alright. Let’s go.”

* * *

The next morning, they sat in a large, basket-like saddle that was fit snugly between the dragon’s shoulder blades, held in place by a large leather harness that Aerin and Kade had helped the Avian craftsmen hastily design in time for their departure. Admittedly, it was not as comfortable as a carriage, but with the blankets and pillows that had been added for cushioning, it was more than bearable. And this method of travel was far faster than any other Aerin knew―by carriage, foot, or even drake.

Aerin still could not quite process the fact that he was riding a dragon, much less the fact that the creature was actually real. Several times, he found himself wondering what Baldur would have thought of this entire ordeal. Truthfully, everything about their situation was what his brother had longed for: a battle in which to gain glory and prove his prowess in combat, a war that would just about guarantee him a long passage in history books―if not entire volumes―and a beast of legend abiding by his will.

He could not help but think that perhaps, if Baldur was here instead of him, they might actually stand a better chance at surviving the coming war.

Aerin leaned over the edge of the saddle, the wind whipping his hair as he gazed down at the familiar treetops of the heartoak forest. The leaves had already begun to change, shifting from deep shades of green to rich hues of crimson and gold that inspired House Valleros’ colors. 

In front of them flew the entirety of the Avian Kingdom’s army―eight Clans of about five hundred fighters each, an aerial force that was about four thousand strong. Killian had assured them that despite their isolation, the Avian Kingdom’s warriors were incredibly skilled, strong fighters that could easily take on the best of men. But after seeing the images of the Empire’s army in the scrying pool, the sheer size of the dark force that was only supposed to be the  _ first wave, _ Aerin was not optimistic about their odds. He could not help but fear they were all charging head-on to meet their deaths.

Overhead, the dark cover of night was giving way to the brightening dawn, the stars fading into hues of soft, purplish-blue with hints of pink. It would not be long now until they reached Cragheart, the desolate field where the last battle of the Great War had been fought, where the last elven empire had fallen. Aerin prayed that his kingdom would not follow in their footsteps. He could not allow it.

“Morella has not seen war since the fiefdom battles,” Ristridin said from beside him, his voice deep and characteristically serious. “Skirmishes, rebellions, yes. I witnessed quite a few of those before your father came into power. But violence like what we can expect from the Great Conquerors… I do not think that even the Great War can compare.”

“Let us hope it does not end as the Great War did,” Tyril replied gravely from the other side of the saddle.

Aerin pulled back, his lips pressed into a grim line as he faced Tyril and the Captain. “We have the Avian Kingdom’s support. That’s about four thousand fighters. And as of right now, Morella’s standing army is the largest the kingdom has ever had. If we can convince my father to call in the army, that should give us a chance, shouldn’t it?”

“While that is true,” Ristridin conceded, his voice perfectly even, a general weighing the odds, “numbers are not the only things that matter in a war. Many of the men in the standing army have never seen battle before, and those who have… I imagine that they have only seen a fraction of what a real war is like. I have personally seen to it that even in times of peace, our men are well trained for battle, but learned skill can only do so much for the timid heart.”

“None of that will mean anything if the Empire has already sacked the kingdom,” Imtura grumbled from where she sat in the corner, using one of her axes to carve a small chunk of wood into what appeared to be some sort of bloodsquid. “They arrived yesterday morning. They’ve probably already taken control of the capital.”

Aerin felt his lips school themselves into a grimace. He had said something similar to Iliana yesterday atop the Crow’s Nest, but somehow, hearing the words spoken aloud by someone else―especially someone as skilled in combat as Imtura―only made him feel worse. A year ago, when he had been considerably more arrogant, Aerin would have loathed the idea of being proven wrong. Now, he welcomed it.

“Imtura!” Nia exclaimed, her tone appalled and full of disapproval. “Don’t say things like that!”

“Whether you say them or not doesn’t make them any less true, priestess,” Mal muttered, although his tone lacked its usual bite. “Immy’s right. We’ve been traveling for hours. In that time―assuming these guys are as big and bad as we think they are―”

“They’re all that we anticipate and more,” Kade muttered. 

“Yeah, thanks for that outlook, sunshine,” Mal bit out, grimacing. “But that only proves my point. If these guys are  _ that _ bad and Whitetower is practically defenseless, with only the city guard on duty, then it’s likely the capital has already been taken.”

“But it wasn’t defenseless,” Iliana said from where she sat at the base of Mor’s neck on a smaller saddle, her plaited hair snapping behind her like a dark whip. She pointed with a gauntleted hand. “Look.”

Aerin followed the tip of her finger to where the heartoak forest gave way to scorched earth, the fields of Cragheart. His heart jumped into his throat and he gripped the edges of the saddle so tightly, the wood groaned. On the battlefield stood thousands upon thousands of dark soldiers, grunts of the Empire of Ash. At the southern edge of the battlefield, where the ruins of Cragheart lay, a massive rift to the Realm of Shadow swirled and pulsed, its edges crackling in the air, although no new troops appeared to be entering. It was likely left open for reinforcements or the highly unlikely possibility that the first wave of soldiers would need to retreat.

But Aerin’s focus was not on the rift or the teeming hordes of Ash warriors. No, his attention was on the other army that stood on the northern side of the field, silver armor flashing in the light of dawn. His  _ father’s  _ army.

The King had listened.

“I don’t understand,” Aerin breathed, his heartbeat loud as he watched Morellian soldiers push back against the darkness. Far more Morellian men fell beneath Ash blades than the converse, but for now, they appeared to be holding their own.

“It appears that your letter worked, Prince Aerin,” Ristridin remarked, the notes of pride and disbelief evident in his voice. “He heeded your words. Your father called the army.”

A call went up ahead, a strange war horn, and the aerial forces of the Avian Kingdom dove, plowing through the chaos of the Ash forces, scattering the soldiers, and providing momentary relief for the Morellian troops that had presumably been rotating in and out of battle since yesterday evening.

“Morella stands a chance after all,” Imtura grinned, slapping Aerin hard on the back, his armor clanging with the contact. He did not have to be a mind reader to understand her unspoken words.  _ Because of you. _

_ There are more people than you think who are willing to follow you. You just have to reach out. _

Aerin wondered what kind of decree his father had issued when he told the kingdom that an Empire most had only ever heard whispers of in old legends was about to attack. He also wondered if the people of Morella knew that King Arlan’s informant was his last forsaken son.

Aerin could not believe it. With no proof but Aerin’s written word, his father had believed him. His father had  _ listened. _

“Light guide us,” Nia murmured and the dread in her voice made Aerin’s blood run cold. Aerin tore his gaze away from the second battle of Cragheart and forced himself to look north, towards Whitetower. 

“By the gods,” Mal whispered, horror in his voice.

They watched, frozen in disbelief, as a bright, greenish light streamed through the windows and open doorways of the upper levels of the Whitetower palace. The light flared, a mist-like wave of it radiating outward, and then the sky itself shook with the delayed force of the blast, the loud  _ BOOM! _ barreling through the air. The air around them quivered and everyone ducked low as Mor beat his powerful wings to maintain his course.

When the danger had passed and the smoke had cleared, Aerin shoved himself up and returned his attention to Whitetower.

“Oh no,” Kade breathed.

The entire upper half of the palace… it was gone.


	33. Fire With Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A war on two fronts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: blood, death, and violence

Aerin stared at the smoking wreckage of the Whitetower palace, the din of battle wafting up from the field below. The Clans of the Avian Kingdom swept through the Ash forces like a scourge, causing mayhem everywhere they went as they slammed through the enemy lines, making way for the Morellian footsoldiers to push back. Meanwhile, Iliana guided Mor in large, sweeping circles as she scoured the plains of Cragheart for a place to land, occasionally laying fire to wagons laden with weapons. In the bedlam that ensued after the Avian Kingdom’s arrival, it was difficult to raze the enemy forces without incidentally roasting their own men.

However, the Great Conquerors were not easily overtaken. They did not fall as easily as the average Morellian man and fear did not run rampant among their ranks. They regrouped quickly, their commanders and generals ordering them to reform the lines. Every time a cohort of winged fighters swooped through the Ash army, fewer returned from the fray. They would have to switch up their strategy. 

Even in the skies, chaos reigned all around them, but Aerin’s sole focus was the ruined palace in the distance. Over and over again, all he could think was,  _ Father. _

After a few moments of sitting in shock, Aerin shook himself from his daze and clambered to the forefront of the saddle, nearly hurling himself over the side as he shouted over the noise to Iliana, “You have to get me over there!”

Iliana looked back, bewildered as he gestured insistently toward Whitetower. She shook her head, slender fingers pointing toward the fields below. “Aerin, the battle is here.”

He knew she was being logical. The forces beneath them were what they came for, the biggest threat. At least, that was what the rational part of Aerin’s brain reasoned. But his heart, in fact, was very much  _ irrational _ ―anxious thing that it was. “And my father, the King, is over there!”

The look Iliana gave him was pitying. “Aerin, you saw the blast. He’s probably―”

_ No, _ Aerin thought.  _ Don’t say it. No, no, no, no.  _

First his mother, then Baldur, and now… No, Aerin could not even consider it. That explosion, whatever it was, it could not have been it. His father was still there, in the palace. He had to be, or else, that meant Aerin truly was the last member of the Valleros family left alive.

Aerin had always known that one day, his father would be gone. Before the Shadow Court, the entire second stage of Aerin’s life had been centered around that fact. Arlan would pass, Baldur would ascend the throne, and Aerin would spend the rest of his years running in circles making sure his brother did not burn the kingdom to the ground. And while Aerin would never call the relationship he had with his father warm… it was not until he saw that mysterious blast take out the upper levels of the palace that he was forced to consider what a world without his father would truly mean.

Aerin shook his head, reaching out to grip Iliana’s elbow. “Iliana,  _ please!” _

Iliana opened her mouth to argue, but whatever expression he wore on his face was enough to sway her. She glanced down at the battlefield below, loosed a heavy breath, and nodded. “Fine.”

Relief poured through his body, leaving his limbs weak.  _ “Thank you.” _

Iliana nodded, then faced forward once more, leaning down to deliver the order to the Sky Dragon. Aerin sat back, his heart thrumming almost painfully in his chest as Mor banked right, carrying them away from the battlefield and toward Whitetower.

“What’s going on?” Mal asked, his brow knitting as he leaned over the edge of the saddle and watched Cragheart disappear from view, shielded by the heartoak trees.

“We’re going to the palace,” Aerin said, rubbing his temples. “I need… I need to find my father. And the palace staff… there are other people there that need help, if anyone is left at all.” He looked up, meeting his companions’ stares. “You don’t have to come with me―”

“Don’t be ridiculous, palace rat,” Imtura scoffed, tossing aside the crudely carved wooden bloodsquid she had whittled over the duration of their trip. “I’m definitely going with you. My men are still locked in that dungeon of yours and I plan on getting them out before the whole castle crumbles. And,” she added, her knuckles cracking as she flexed her fingers. “More than that, I like to think it would piss off my mother if she found out I helped save the old Gentle King.”

“Does your mother really want to take the throne?” Tyril questioned, arching a brow.

Imtura waved a dismissive hand. “Empty threats. We orcs don’t belong on land. But I can tell you that it frustrates her to no end that Arlan never recognized Flotilla as an autonomous city-state like he does with Undermount, or that she is its queen.”

“Well, family issues aside,” Mal said, his fingers skimming over the handles of his many blades in a silent inventory check. “I’m coming too. The old man pardoned me from all my crimes. Gave me a clean slate. Granted, it was his stupid regime that submerged me and my people in a life of crime but… Maybe saving his ass will help out us forgotten people in the long run.”

“Threep and I are coming too,” Nia added, pulling back her hair. “I wasn’t eager to be on the battlefield anyway. If there are injured people in the palace, I can help them.”

Ristridin nodded. “My place is beside you and the King, boy.”

Aerin found it hard to speak, his throat tight with emotion. He dipped his chin gratefully. “Thank you.”

“And you, landrat?” Imtura asked, her golden gaze fixing on Iliana’s back.

He watched the line of her shoulders go rigid, and Aerin knew her answer before she even had to give it. Iliana shook her head. “No. I will not be going with you. After I deliver you to the palace, I’m returning to Cragheart.” 

Nia made a dismayed sound. “Alone? We could deal with the palace first, then―

“I have to,” she insisted, gazing south. She clenched her jaw, a muscle feathering in her cheek. “You saw how it was back there. They need all of the help they can get on that battlefield and we don’t have time to waste. Stopping that army is my task. I plan to stick to it. Cragheart is where I am supposed to be, where I am most needed.”

_ But I need you, too,  _ Aerin thought almost instinctively, although he clamped down on the words before they could slip out of his mouth. It would be unfair of him, cruel even, to say such a thing, to split her focus between his needs and those of their realm. 

“She will not be going alone,” Tyril declared, his blue eyes steely with determination. He nodded toward Iliana. “I am going with you.”

Iliana opened her mouth, brows furrowing, then pressed her lips together and nodded gratefully as he hauled himself up, seating himself at the back of the saddle. “Thank you, my friend.” 

Aerin wanted to protest, wanted to insist that Iliana remain by his side where he could keep an eye on her, keep her safe in any way that he could, but he held his tongue. And as much as he hated it, as much as he absolutely despised the idea of her going into battle without the rest of them to back her up, Aerin knew that Iliana was right. With all of her magic and an Old God by her side, her place was in the fray. And if Tyril was going with her… 

_ Trust that she will do what she must and return. You have to trust people to make their own decisions. _

Aerin wondered if there would ever come a day when those decisions did not put lives of people he cared about at stake. Nevertheless, he clamped down on his fear and gave into that trust as he forced himself to focus on the task ahead and returned his attention to Whitetower.

He watched with his heart in his throat and a white-knuckled grip on the saddle’s edges as they flew over the heartoak forest and crossed into the capital, the smoke from the ruined palace blotting out the brightening sky. As they drew closer to the palace, Aerin could see that much of its infrastructure was still intact. The portion that had been obliterated mostly housed guest bedrooms, ballrooms, unfortunately, a few spectacular libraries, and… and the King’s quarters. A pit yawned open at the center of Aerin’s stomach.

_ He’s always been an early riser, _ he reminded himself― _ convinced _ himself.  _ There’s a battle going on. He wasn’t sleeping. He’ll be in the war room. He’s okay. He’s okay. _

The destruction was so much worse up close. Even the exterior parts of the palace that seemed to be intact and safe from the blast were charred and threaded through with hairline fractures. Windows on the first few floors had been blown out, as if the resulting tremor from the explosion had rattled the window frames enough to shatter the glass. Massive hunks of rubble littered the courtyard. People streamed through the gates in a hurry,―the staff, judging by their uniforms―seeking sanctuary in the heart of Whitetower. As they approached the palace terrace, Aerin caught the scent of smoke and the strange stench of ozone, saw the rubble and dust scattered about, and his mantra transformed from _He’s okay_ to _Please be okay,_ and finally, to a simple but desperate, _Please._

Mor landed, his great wings stirring the wisteria vines that decorated the terrace as the party readied for departure. Even here, far beneath the highest level left intact, the effects of the blast could be seen. One of the fountains seemed to have been hit by falling debris. A portion of its basin had crumbled away, spilling water across sparkling white stone that paved the garden. Some of the plants, particularly the ones that required a bit of magic to grow, had died, their colorful petals now shriveled husks. The night-filled scent of jasmine was gone, smothered by the sweet but pungent smell of ozone, as if a storm was rolling in. This entire section of the palace, which had always been a tranquil place of solace, now looked desolate, a gentle introduction to the horror that laid within.

Ristridin dismounted first, followed by Imtura, then Mal, Nia, Kade, and finally Tyril, who began to undo the clasps of the harness that held the large saddle in place, while Aerin situated himself between Mor’s shoulder blades. He fought past the tightness in his throat. “Iliana.”

Iliana turned her attention back to Aerin and swallowed hard. She twisted in her seat to face him, and there was a tremor in her hands as she took his with a gentleness that never failed to surprise him.

“This is where we part ways,” she murmured softly so that only he could hear as she squeezed his fingers, the golden metal of her gauntlet cool against his skin. 

“I wish we didn’t have to,” Aerin replied, reluctant to let go, even as time continued to tick away.

She smiled sadly. “I know. But we don’t have time to argue about it.” 

As if to hammer her point home, another blast shook the palace, this one far less destructive than the last albeit still violent. Aerin looked up, his gaze catching on a new cloud of dark smoke pouring through an open window, flames licking at the air. There were no traces of that strange, green energy, which gave Aerin the feeling that this explosion was not magical. 

There was a metallic  _ clink! _ followed by a sliding sound, and a  _ thwump! _ as Tyril undid the other saddle and dragged it away.

“Go,” Iliana said, nodding her chin toward the throne room as she released his hands. “Find your father.”

Aerin nodded, but he still did not move to go. Neither of them had time to dally―every second Iliana was not in battle was one in which lives could be lost, and King Arlan was somewhere in the palace, potentially facing an unknown threat that clearly had the capacity for mass destruction. But there was no telling what could happen to either of them in the coming hours. If this was to be the last time he saw her… 

No. It wouldn’t be. He would not allow it.

“I will see you again,” Aerin said firmly, chest burning with resolve. Whether ‘again’ would be in this life or the next―whether Elhalas was real and his kind could find a way in―he did not know, nor did it matter, so long as he found her eventually. Then, Aerin took Iliana’s face between his hands and kissed her, hard. He heard her inhale sharply, then her hands were gripping the edges of his armor, pulling him flush against her. His palms cradled her cheeks, fingers tangling into her dark hair, catching in her tightly bound plait. Drawing back was one of the hardest things to do, but breathless and full of fear, anger, and determination, he managed. 

Aerin pressed his forehead to hers, holding her close one last time, savoring the moment.  _ Iliana Nightbloom,  _ he thought. An outcast orphan from Riverbend that did not fit into this story. She was no one, but she was also everything. She had those lofty titles: King’s Champion, Realm-Walker, the Rider. But more important than any of that, she was the girl who had understood him, who had made him think twice, who had given him that chance to walk the dark path back into the light. The girl who, somewhere along the way, had become his heart.

Dropping his voice to a whisper that only she could hear, Aerin confessed, “I love you.”

Iliana’s eyes widened but before she could reply, Aerin forced himself to pull away. He slid down Mor’s flank and hurried after the others, clasping Tyril’s arm in a gesture he knew the mage understood as,  _ Be safe,  _ as he went.

Aerin did not look back as he entered the throne room, the place where his life had been forever changed. And he did not look back as the sharp beat of Mor’s wings sliced through the air, expelling a strong gust of wind that swept across the terrace and slammed the doors shut behind him, sealing him into his fate.

* * *

_ I love you. _

Those whispered words were all that Iliana could hear, over and over again as they returned to Cragheart, putting Whitetower at their back, leaving the fate of the King and his capital in the hands of his only heir.

_ I love you.  _ Over and over, those words rang, hammering into Iliana like the final nails of a coffin, locking her into a place she could not stay.

_ That bastard.  _ She was going to kill Aerin for telling her―telling her…  _ that _ ―right before battle.  _ And  _ for leaving before she could respond. She was going to kill him. Or maybe she would kiss him instead. She had not yet decided.

And Iliana suspected that she would not get to decide for a while now, because a short while later, they were upon Cragheart once more, the scent of smoke and blood thick in the air. The tide of the battle had turned once again, and not in their favor.

As skilled and fierce as the Avian fighters were, there was no coordination between the two kingdoms’ forces in their efforts against the Empire of Ash. The two armies were stepping on each others’ toes, inadvertently blocking the other force’s advances.

Tyril scoffed, peering over the edge of Mor’s flank. “They need to work together. They’re like a bunch of chickens running around with their heads cut off. Has no one devised a plan?”

Iliana glanced back at him, tilting her head. “You’ve been drilling with military strategists ever since you could read, right? Do you have a plan?”

Tyril stared down at the battlefield, his face drawn, eyes not cold but carefully assessing. After a few moments, he nodded stoutly. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Already?” Iliana’s brows rose. “Just like that?”

Tyril smiled, a touch of pride in the curve of his lips. “Just like that. As you said, I drilled with military strategists ever since I could read, and that was quite some time ago.”

“Are you ever going to tell me how old you are?”

“No.” Tyril gave her that smug smile again, then leaned around her to speak to Mor. “Sky Dragon, if you will, could you take us closer to the Avian forces?”

Mor simply huffed in response, then banked left, steering them toward the clusters of winged men that hovered over the battlefield, diving, retreating and shooting in rotations.

_ He has manners, as well. How did they ever find you?  _ Mor rumbled into her mind and Iliana rolled her eyes.

“You there!” Tyril snapped at a nearby Avian fighter who was in the process of hastily flying  _ away _ from them, likely because of Mor. Iliana noted that although this warrior’s armor and skull mask was the same fashion as Killian and Morrigan’s, the hooded tunic they wore beneath their suit was crimson. Not a member of the Dane Clan, then. Their fear suddenly made sense.

Nevertheless, they stopped almost immediately and turned, their abrupt actions reflecting an eager obedience that made Iliana’s subconscious twinge in aversion.  _ Who could ever defy a god?  _ Iliana mused dryly.  _ Or their heralds? _

“Tell your Wing Leaders to leave the front lines alone,” Tyril ordered, his voice sharp and clear, even over the din of battle. “Attack the middle of the Empire’s host. Cause as much chaos as possible.” Then, without waiting to see if the winged warrior followed―they did―Tyril leaned down. “I request that you take us down to the human army, great Sky Dragon.”

Iliana’s brows furrowed as they dove toward the King’s forces. “Chaos? What are you planning, Tyril?”

“We have three separate forces,” he replied cooly, a cold gleam in his calculating eyes. “I intend to utilize them all.”

As they plunged toward the earth, Iliana watched as the Avian forces pulled back, leaving the front line to the ground troops. They regrouped, coalescing into one, unified mass, and rose like a swelling wave of sparkling silver and brilliant wings. Then, as all waves do, they crashed, slamming down into the heart of the Empire’s host.

The front of the Empire’s army faltered, their attention momentarily turning back to the fray behind them. Taking advantage of their distraction, Mor landed between the human and Ash armies, the ground rumbling beneath his weight.

“We are going to pin them,” Tyril stated brusquely. “Break their lines, attack from where they least expect it, and force them to run. Here, we must make sure they have nowhere to go.” 

He turned to the front line of the Morellian forces, which was haggard, barely pulling itself together in the brief respite offered by the Empire’s distraction. “Re-form your lines!” he ordered. “Ready your shields! When they come, you must push the advantage. Do  _ not  _ let those bastards through.”

But nobody paid him any heed. If anything, the men closest to them stumbled back, trying in vain to get as far away from Mor, their fear―both of the Empire and the dragon―nearly tangible in the air.

“They don’t trust us, yet,” Iliana muttered, shaking her head. “They don’t know whose side we are on.” She leaned forward, hunching over the dragon’s neck. “Mor? Show them.”

For the first time, Iliana turned to face the soldiers of the Ash Kingdom. At this distance, with their faces partially concealed by their helmets, Iliana could barely make out the details of their faces. 

Her breath caught.  _ What _ ―

But before any of the imagery could stick, the Old God unleashed a barrage of flame, blasting through a cluster of Ash soldiers. His roar rattled the earth and drew the attention of every Morellian soldier within sight. When Mor was done, only a patch of scorched earth remained where the Ash soldiers had been. Satisfied, Tyril turned back to the King’s army.

“Gather your courage,” he demanded sharply, leaving no room for uncertainty, “and  _ re-form your lines!  _ There is no place for cowards in this battle. Lift your shields, and when the enemy flees to you, strike them down. Do not let them pass!”

This time, when Tyril ordered them, the Morellian humans listened. The orders from Morellian generals and commanders shattered through the ranks. 

_ “Form the lines!” _

_ “Hold that left flank!” _

_ “Hold fast on the right!” _

“A human army taking orders from an elf,” Iliana mused, watching the soldiers assemble themselves, filling in the gaps and fitting their shields together to form a wall of iron and steel. “Perhaps King Arlan should put you on his war council.”

“I can think of nothing more frustrating than spending entire days nursing the human ego,” Tyril sniffed. “They listen now because they are afraid and in need of guidance. In a war council, those men will care more about being listened to than being right. So, no thank you.”

Iliana huffed a laugh. “Very well.” She leaned forward, patting Mor’s flank. “I think I understand your plan, Tyril. Oh, great and wise Sky Dragon. If you’d please, take us to the back of the Empire’s host,” Iliana requested, her voice mockingly cloying, although her next words had a bite. “And be prepared to give them hell.”

* * *

The palace was quiet. Which meant something was wrong.

Without any idea of what was going on in the palace or where the king was, they had come to the decision that it was best to retrieve Imtura’s crew first. They would need their support.

There were no guards in the hallways, nor were there any bodies to indicate that they had been slain―or even blood, for that matter. Even the dungeons were empty, the guards gone from their posts. Ristridin paused at the unguarded entrance to the main cell block, lips pressed tightly together. “This would never happen. Something took these men from their posts.”

“Maybe they’re protecting King Arlan,” Nia suggested as they reached the landing, accompanied only by the sound of their boots scuffing the worn stone stairs.

“No,” Ristridin negated. “They would never leave the prison, no matter what. Those are their first orders for guarding the cells. We can never be certain that some commotion on another part of the palace grounds is not intended to be a mere distraction to hit the cells.” 

His frown deepened and he shook his head, dispelling the thought. He drew his sword, the one he had recovered in the Aerie’s armory. “Be on your guard, all of you,” he ordered as he crept into the depths of the dungeons. “This way, Tal Kaelen. Your crew is over here.”

Aerin nodded along and unsheathed his gifted blade, although his focus was elsewhere. His gaze trailed along the dark halls of the prison, peering into the empty cell. He shivered involuntarily at the sight, remembering all of the long, dreadful, albeit well-deserved months he had spent within these walls.

“Are you okay? I mean here. Being here.”

Aerin startled slightly, his hand grip tightening around the hilt of his sword, but when he saw that it was only Kade, he relaxed some. Aerin nodded slowly, drawing in a deep breath. “I was not… prepared to come here today.”

Kade nodded in understanding. “I know the feeling. You know, the first time I visited you, I wasn’t actually coming to visit  _ you.” _

Aerin arched a brow, tilting his head. It really was like old times, talking in the dungeons with Kade. It eased him some. “You have other prisoner friends, then?”

Kade huffed. “No. I just… had a lot of nightmares. As you know. One of my fellow archivists told me the best way to get rid of them was to confront them. And since I couldn’t go to the Dreadlord’s dungeons…”

“You came here,” Aerin finished and Kade silently nodded. He pursed his lips, gaze straying to Ristridin and Imtura, who wound through the halls in front of them. Aerin returned his attention to Kade. “So did they go away?”

“What?”

“The nightmares,” Aerin clarified, although he had a feeling that he knew the answer. “Did they go away after you came here?”

Kade’s responding smile was sad, a twinge of resigned bitterness showing in the corners of his mouth. “No. They are less frequent, replaced by other memories. But I can’t forget them. It’s my job to remember.”

Aerin’s brows furrowed. What the hells did that mean? “Your job?”

Kade’s eyes widened, and it was in that small action that Aerin knew the other man had not meant to say that, a slip of the mind. Kade shook his head. “I just meant as an archivist―”

“The hells?” Imtura snarled, her voice shattering the relative quiet of the dungeon. Aerin and Kade looked up, their conversation immediately forgotten as their gaze fell across Imtura, who stood amongst several empty cells, all of their doors left ajar. Imtura whirled on Ristridin, her eyes blazing in the light of the sconces that illuminated the hall. “Explain this,  _ Captain.  _ Where is my crew?”

“If they aren’t here, then I do not know,” Ristridin replied, standing firm against Imtura’s glare, although his expression was troubled. He gazed around, his dark eyes searching for any clues that could help them piece together the puzzle of what had happened here.

“First the guards are gone, now a bunch of prisoners?” Mal wondered aloud. “This doesn’t sit right with me.”

Threep rolled his eyes. “I don’t think this sits right with anyone. Anyone with an ounce of common sense could see that something is wrong here.”

Mal scowled.  _ “Listen _ ―”

“Perhaps they were evacuated,” Nia interjected, pulling Threep from her shoulder and tucking him beneath her arm on her other side, keeping him away from Mal. “Maybe after the explosion, the guards had them moved to a safer location.”

“Doubt it,” Mal muttered, folding his arms. “Since when do guards care what happens to a bunch of so-called criminals?”

“They weren’t criminals!” Imtura snapped ferociously, her hands curling and uncurling into fists. Aerin had never seen her so agitated, although he knew that her reasoning was more than justified. “Aerin explained all of that to his father.” She turned to him, brows knitting together. “Didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Then maybe they were released,” Nia said soothingly, laying her hand atop Imtura’s bicep. “But either way, they aren’t here. And I don’t think we will find what happened by staying here.”

Imtura’s eyes flashed, infuriated. “I―” She let out a large exhale, her shoulders deflating. She hung her head and nodded. “You’re right. We need to… Let’s just go save the King.”

“There’s something I must check first,” Ristridin stated. “I believe it may give us some insight as to what is happening here. Come.”

They followed Ristridin out of the dungeons and into the upper levels of the palace, which were just as silent and barren as before. Aerin was about to comment on the eerie hush that had fallen over the building when another small explosion shook the palace, the sound ricocheting off the marble floors and ivory walls.

Aerin frowned. “We need to figure out what is causing those explosions.”

Mal blinked owlishly at him. “You want to go _ toward _ the blasts, princeling?”

“It’s the only lead we have,” Aerin reasoned, even as his stomach squirmed uneasily. “Go toward the trouble and you can be sure to find its source.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Mal mumbled, twirling one of his knives in his palm. “But are we sure we really want to find the source?”

“If it means finding my father, yes,” Aerin replied stiffly, his lips drawing into a frown as he gazed around the hallway. Ristridin was leading them into the Eastern Wing, the oldest part of the palace. “The Empire is here to sack the capital and seize control, yes. But they are also here for him.” Aerin tore his attention away from Mal. “Captain, why are we here?”

As Aerin spoke, Ristridin shouldered open a set of ornate double doors, leading them into the palace’s own Chapel of Light. Built for the private affairs of the royal family and invited courtiers or staff, the chapel was a beautiful space, built almost entirely of glass and gold trim. Two columns of about two dozen rosewood pews stretched beneath the vaulted glass ceiling. On a normal day, so much light would stream through the translucent roof that candles were not necessary, casting patterns of sunshine throughout the room. But today, there were only weak shadows, the sun blotted out by the smoke and swirling ash beyond. 

At the forefront of the room, the wall of glass was stained, depicting the image of a Priestess of Light―said to be the very one to whom the Divine Valleros was married―holding an Orb of Light between her delicate hands, golden hair hovering around her, eyes closed in tranquil. Beneath the stained windows stood an altar, the marble table was littered with dried flowers and bits of glittering crystals―offerings and pieces of a ceremony.

How long had it been since Aerin was last here? He could not remember. It had been long before his imprisonment, long before he met the party in the Deadwood. Aerin’s chest tightened as he realized that perhaps the last time he stepped foot in the Chapel was for his mother’s private funeral service. That day had been filled with so much grief for a life that was not lost, although Aerin was the sole bearer of that information. Officially, at least. Baldur knew. That night, the evening of the Crown Prince’s ruined celebration, Aerin knew he did.

Their father had cried, had wept before the altar in agony. Aerin had as well, quietly, in shame and regret for the truth he could not give, the chance to escape he had turned down. Only Baldur had not cried, although he had been silent, seething in a wordless rage that had been the last spike in the wedge that permanently drove them apart.

Aerin wondered if a service had been held here for Baldur, if his father had stood between these walls of glass, and grieved alone.

“You wanted to stop for prayer?” Imtura asked, gazing around the peaceful chapel with a doubtful expression on her face. Aerin wondered what Imtura thought of all of this―not just the Chapel of Light, but their entire journey. So much of their quest was steeped in religions she did not believe in, the Faith of the Light and the Shared Pantheon. 

“Do we really have time for this?” Mal questioned, lingering by the entrance to the chapel as he tapped his foot impatiently. “I thought we were trying to find the King.”

Aerin was inclined to agree, but he held his tongue. For as long as he had known the Captain, Ristridin had never been a particularly pious man. In fact, Aerin could not even remember a time the Captain had visited either the private Chapel or Whitetower’s Temple of Light when he was not guarding the royal family. And there was a distinct sense of purpose in the way the Captain moved, striding toward the altar, one that Aerin knew was not guided by faith. Interest piqued, Aerin followed.

Ristridin merely hummed in response as he knelt before the marble table, his fingers tapping the crystals scattered there, seemingly at random, with a delicacy most would have mistaken for reverence. But Aerin knew the Captain, recognized the crease between his brows, the thin press of his lips. This was a knight receiving information.

“What is it?” he asked quietly, kneeling beside him.

Ristridin studied the crystals for a few moments more, and as he did, Aerin wondered what the Captain saw in them, if there was something peculiar in their arrangement. Then Ristridin tilted his head toward him, keeping his voice low. “I know where your father is.”

Aerin drew in a sharp breath. “Where? How?”

Ristridin shook his head. His gaze roamed around the room. “It is not safe to say.” He tilted his chin toward the crystals. “Signals. Our eyes and ears have left a message.”

_ Eyes and ears.  _ Aerin knew what that meant. _ Spies. _

For obvious reasons, Aerin did not know much about the palace’s secret network of spies―he would have if he became the royal advisor―but he knew that they operated in parallel to Ristridin’s guard. Ristridin and the enigmatic spymaster were the Right and Left Hands of the King, respectively. The blade in his hand and the one concealed in his sleeve.

Aerin’s stomach twisted anxiously. Yes, something was wrong in the palace.  _ Clearly. _ But with Ristridin’s tight-lipped behavior, it appeared that things were even worse than they had originally presumed them to be. Aerin wondered who exactly Ristridin feared would overhear them. Then he wondered if even  _ Ristridin _ knew that.

“Is he safe?” Aerin whispered.

“For now.” Ristridin stood from his kneel, casually sweeping his hand across the marble surface and disturbing the careful arrangement of the crystals. “But who knows for how long. Evidently,” he said, glancing back at the crystals to aid Aerin’s understanding, “the Right Hand has turned.”

Aerin’s blood went cold as he stood. “They’re working with the Empire?”

“I do not know.”

Aerin swallowed hard. If their own men were now moving against them… “Then we need to act fast.”

Ristridin nodded, turning away from the altar. “Follow me.”

The group nodded in agreement and moved to go, Ristridin weaving around everyone to lead the party, when the doors to the Chapel of Light burst open, admitting six guards, all of whom moved with formidable purpose. Instinctively, Aerin’s hand flew to the pommel of his sword, fingers tightening around the hilt.

“Prince Aerin,” said one of the guards as they drew to an abrupt halt, backs ramrod straight, faces betraying nothing. The one who spoke inclined his head toward Ristridin. “Captain. We are here to escort you all to King Arlan.”

Aerin’s brow furrowed, dumbfounded. “My father sent you?”

“Yes. The palace is under attack. It is dangerous,” the same guard replied. “His Majesty wants us to bring you to him so that you may be safe.”

_ Wrong.  _ Somehow, Aerin knew that everything about this seemed wrong. 

Aerin glanced toward Ristridin, then released his grip on his sword, folding his hands behind his back. “Where is he?” Aerin asked, his gaze trailing across the guards’ stern, impassive faces. “Are we prisoners?”

“His Majesty is waiting in the war room. And no, you are not prisoners. Your father only wishes to keep you safe.”

“The war room,” Aerin repeated as he glanced toward Ristridin for confirmation. The Captain shook his head ever so slightly.  _ Lies.  _ The information fed by the guards did not align with the messages on the altar.

But their options were limited. There was no way to tell what the guards might do if they declined. Aerin drew in a deep breath and nodded slowly. Whatever this was, it might give them answers. 

_ The Right Hand has turned. _

Aerin slid his sword into its scabbard but kept his grip on his pommel as he waved his other hand forward. “Lead the way.”

***

The Great Conquerors may not have been average, mortal men, but Iliana found that they still burned like them. 

From the skies, the Ash soldiers looked like indiscernible dark shapes—no faces, no identity, although Iliana knew that was not the case. But as she hurled orbs of fire into the shadowy ranks from atop Mor’s back, she found some solace that those soldiers were only shapes to her—for now, at least. It made all of the killing so much easier. 

She, Tyril, and Mor soared over the battlefield, the Old God burning deep grooves into the back of the Ash forces as the two elves used their magic. The Avian Kingdom continued to sow disorder among the Ash army, either by raining down arrows from above or diving into the fray and using their force to plow through ranks while Tyril, Iliana, and Mor attacked the rear of the Ash forces, pinning them between their fire and the Morellian fighters.

It worked beautifully. Unless they wished to be burned to dust by both dragon’s fire and Tyril and Iliana’s Cleansing Fire, the Ash soldiers had no choice but to move forward into the melee with the Avian Clans, forcing the front lines onto the swords and shields of the Morellian soldiers. In the background of it all, the portal from the Shadow Realm still swirled, a maelstrom of crackling red lighting surrounded by a miasma of dark energy that made the hair on the back of Iliana’s arms and neck stand on end, accompanied by the pungent odor of ozone, like a storm waiting to break.

Gradually, the Ash army began to thin between the two fronts of their attack, driving everyone into the deadly chaos at the center.

“Stay your fire,” Tyril commanded, ceasing his own attacks. “In this mayhem and from this range, we’re just as likely to hurt our own men as we are the Empire’s.”

Iliana nodded, flames dissipating in her hands as she reached back and unslung her bow. For a skirmish as tightly knit as this, they would have to abandon their methods of wide-scale destruction in favor of deadly precision. “Just get us within range,” Iliana requested of the god. “Maybe you can eat a few soldiers as you go.”

An indignant huff of smoke was Mor’s only reply as he razed one more abandoned supply wagon, then dove into the melee. 

It was loud, so loud, Iliana could barely hear her own thoughts or even Tyril’s voice had he not been right next to her. Despite the distance and the chaos, Iliana could just make out Morrigan, her bright coppery hair streaming in the wind as she soared over the Empire’s army, hurling arrows and spears, the winged fighters behind her following suit. Across the battlefield, Killian and his father, each leading their own faction, swooped in opposite directions, then banked sharply, mirror images swooping toward each other before plowing into the enemy lines. Their armor was slick with blood, red and… and  _ black. _

Mor swept low, taking arrow after arrow against his leathery flank, in the thick skin of his underbelly, although they hardly seemed to do more than merely annoy the Old God. Iliana nocked an arrow and picked her target, a blur of dark armor fighting against a Morellian soldier clad in silver.

“Tyril,” she prompted, drawing her bowstring taut, arms steady, legs pressing tightly into the sides of Mor’s body.

Tyril whispered an incantation beneath his breath and fire bloomed in his palm. He touched his fingertips to the shaft of Iliana’s arrow and the flames leaped from his hand, igniting the wood just as Iliana let it fly.

She did not wait to see if the shot had landed.

Another arrow was already nocked, her attention elsewhere as Tyril continued to lend his fire. Mor dove, his hind legs reaching into the fray and scooping up dark soldiers as he went and crunching them between his talons. He flew even lower and bowed his head, bringing Iliana and Tyril barely more than ten feet above the battle as he captured a few soldiers in his deadly maw. Iliana felt Mor’s growl of disapproval as he released the bodies in his talons, hurling them into another cluster of Ash soldiers and spat the mangled corpses from his vicious mouth.

“Bad taste?” Iliana questioned, loosing another fiery arrow.

“Like ash,” Mor snarled, belching a small burst of fire into the enemy ranks.

“How fitting,” Iliana muttered, about to fire again when she abruptly ducked, yanking Tyril down with her as a volley of arrows soared over their heads. Mor roared, his wings spreading taut as he banked tightly, catching the arrows in his underside and keeping his riders out of the line of fire.

Iliana was certain that if Mor had not turned the way he did, drawing Iliana’s attention away from the battle, she would not have seen the massive bolt that was loaded into a ballista on the field, the wicked point of its massive arrowhead pointed directly at them.

_ “DIVE!”  _ Iliana bellowed, her throat shredding itself raw as she screamed over the cacophony of the battle.

Without hesitating, Mor obeyed, tucking his wings in tightly to his side as he speared toward the earth, diving so low, his massive tail whipped through the Empire’s forces, throwing swords, shields, and soldiers as he went. The ballista bolt whizzed over their heads, punching clean through a host of Avian fighters clad in dark grey hoods. Iliana ground her teeth and looked away from the spray of blood, shattered metal, and feathers that erupted in the bolt’s wake.

Tyril hissed something low and biting in elvish, probably a vicious curse, as Mor rose again, climbing high into the skies and out of range of the ballista. Iliana turned in the saddle, immediately finding the ballista amidst the swarm of Morellian and Ash soldiers. They could not raze the weapon of war to the ground, not without killing the human fighters as well.

Ice flooded Iliana’s veins and she gripped the Bow of Gal’dariel so tightly, the metal and wood groaned, because there, standing next to the ballista was a golden-haired man. Iliana did not need to be close to know that the man was staring right at her, through her.

_ The Emperor. _

“Mor.” Iliana slung her bow over her shoulder and unsheathed her sword, a savage song of violence singing in her bones. “Get me down there.”


	34. Empire of Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is only the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: blood, death, and violence.

“Lead the way.”

Four of the six guards turned, pressing themselves against the wall to make way for the party as two others continued forward, leading the way. As Aerin and his companions passed, two more started forward, flanking them. The last two brought up the rear. The formation was typical of guards who were escorting their charges, but Aerin could not help but feel that the defensive formation was anything but protective.

Wordlessly, the guards led them out of the chapel, their movements flawless and well-coordinated―each step almost in perfect sync. No unit of guards in Whitetower, even Ristridin’s Thirteen, moved as such.

Aerin heard a slight creaking noise and looked to his right to see Imtura tightly gripping the leather-bound handles of her axes, her knuckles pale with strain. She caught his gaze and grimaced. Aerin knew that look well enough to understand what it meant.  _ I do not like this. I do not trust this. _

Aerin merely nodded as if to say,  _ Neither do I. _

Imtura’s scowl deepened and her jaw clenched. She mumbled, the words nearly indiscernible, “Stay alert.”

Aerin’s grip around his sword tightened.

“Would any of you men care to explain what has happened here?” Ristridin demanded, every bit the authoritative Captain of the Royal Guard. Every question, Aerin knew, was a test. Ristridin was asking questions for answers he already knew―or at least partially knew. “The King, is he well?”

The lead guard on the left side inclined his head. “Captain. The Empire of Ash attacked the palace. The King is safe and hiding.”

“How vague,” Ristridin quipped, his eyes narrowing. “Give me specifics.”

“We do not have all of the information. Much is still unknown―”

“Give me what you  _ do _ know, then,” Ristridin pressed, his gloved hand curling around the hilt of his sword. “Unless, of course, that is nothing. Or,” he challenged, narrowing his eyes, “you are lying.”

Aerin shot the Captain a cautioning look that was completely ignored by both Ristridin and the guards, who abruptly stopped, plunging them into an eerie silence.

Everything happened so fast. 

There was a beat of quiet, then the guards began to turn, faces devoid of any emotion, gauntleted hands reaching for swords―

Imtura grabbed Aerin’s shoulder, hauling him behind her as the first swords were drawn. She unhooked her axes as Aerin unsheathed his blade, angling his body in front of Nia as Mal covered Kade and Ristridin faced off the lead guards. But before steel could sing against steel, Aerin felt the air shift around them, heard the sound of wind whispering down an empty corridor, saw a blur of grey and red, and then there was a series of metallic clangs, the thumps of bodies against the marble floor.

“The hells?” Mal barked as the guards that had been escorting them crumpled to the ground.

Where the guards had once stood were now several… servants?

_ No,  _ Aerin corrected himself, the realization sinking in.  _ Spies. _

“The Left Hand,” Aerin murmured, his gaze sliding to the open panels in the wall behind them that led to what appeared to be a secret passageway.

Almost immediately, the spies bowed, crossing an arm across their chests, a fist laid over their hearts. 

“Your Highness,” said the spy closest to him. Her skin was fair and her hair was long and straight, a silken sheath that was the exact shade of a fawn’s coat. When she lifted her head, her hair fell back, revealing ears that were mostly human, save for the small, delicate points they ended in.

A halfling.

The woman inclined her head to Ristridin. “Captain Ristridin. You’ve returned in one piece.”

Ristridin returned the gesture. “Spymaster Anneith.”

_ “Spymaster?” _ Aerin echoed, his brows lifting.  _ This _ was the King’s Left Hand? Aerin blinked. Anneith hardly looked older than him, although Aerin wondered if perhaps her appearance was deceiving. Did human-elf halflings also have long lifespans? Aerin had never met one to find out. As he gazed at the spies that surrounded them, Aerin noted that some were human, but most were also halflings like Anneith. Just another Whitetower secret Aerin never knew.

Anneith awarded him a small smile as she nodded. Her eyes, a startling shade of lilac, sparkled. “This is not how I would have liked to introduce myself to you, Prince Aerin. There will be time for proper introductions later. For now, we must get you and your friends to safety. To your father.”

Aerin’s heart thumped almost painfully at the prospect of seeing his father again. Aerin glanced toward his companions, who still looked on in confusion, then Ristridin, who nodded. Anneith and her spies could be trusted.

“After you, my lady,” Aerin insisted and Anneith nodded, disappearing into the hidden passageway. Anneith carried a runestone, as did the rest of her spies, illuminating the corridor with a gentle, sapphire light. Her spies lingered at the back of the party, moving with an almost spectral grace that made it easy to forget they were there.

“What happened?” Ristridin questioned as they followed the halfling spymaster through the dark, winding hallway. “Did agents of the Empire infiltrate the palace? Why did the palace guard turn?”

“A small force stormed the palace, through a portal in the upper gardens,” Anneith replied, her tone grave. “The palace guards intercepted them, but…” Anneith shook her head, face pale in the runestone’s light.  _ “Gods,  _ they didn’t even stand a chance, Captain. They fought valiantly, but every man that charged forward was struck down in the courtyard within seconds. Only a few individuals avoided the fight, the leaders of the coup. Once they were gone… that was when they decimated the upper levels.”

“They took out their own men?” Ristridin questioned, incredulous. “But why? Why not leave them to fight? It sounds like they would have won.”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “To cause as much mayhem and destruction as possible? To demonstrate their power? I cannot tell you, but an enemy that shows so little regard for the lives of their own soldiers…” Anneith swallowed hard, shaking her head. “But that isn’t the worst part. The Empire… they had a mage in their company. He cast some sort of spell and all of the other knights in the palace stopped fighting. They just went… blank.” 

Anneith shuddered. “It must have been some sort of compulsion spell. As they went through the palace, the mage put every guard in sight under their influence. They aren’t acting on their own will.” 

“So, the men who were escorting us,” Ristridin concluded. “They were under… this spell.”

“Yes.”

“Are they…” Aerin frowned, trying to find the words. “Are they still in there? It’s not permanent?”

“I don’t know that either,” Anneith admitted, her tone troubled. “I think so. I imagine if the spell is disrupted, the compulsion will end. That is why when my agents engaged them, I gave the order to subdue, not kill. But there are so many of them, Your Highness, and exposing my spies puts them at risk of being put under the mage’s thrall. Eventually, after a few skirmishes, we started to collapse passageways in the palace to prevent our hideouts from being infiltrated.”

“That’s what the other explosions were,” Aerin muttered, remembering the blast that had taken out a window when they first arrived on the palace terrace and then the other one that had shaken the walls when they left the dungeons.

“Yes,” Anneith nodded. “Many of my informants have been seriously injured obtaining this information. There are still more of us out there, keeping tabs and doing what they can. For now, the best thing we can do is wait until we have enough information to devise a plan.  _ And  _ hope the Empire’s agents do not find us first.”

“I see,” Aerin murmured, pushing his hands through his hair. This was… Truthfully, he did not know how to describe what this was.  _ Hopeless,  _ his subconscious supplied, although he smothered that thought before it could take root. They lapsed into an uneasy silence after that, everyone mulling over this new information as they continued through the passageway. The floor sloped down, carrying them deep into the belly of the palace to a level that was perhaps even lower than the dungeons.

“Anneith is a new addition,” Ristridin told him quietly, breaking the dreadful silence. “Your father dismissed the last spymaster, a man named Shale.”

Aerin frowned. “Why did he do that?”

“In peacetime, the man had admittedly grown complacent,” the Captain explained. “His order was lax and he did not pay nearly enough attention to the internal affairs of the palace than the external.” He arched a brow, eyes glittering with dry amusement. “I assume that is why you were able to become so entrenched in the Shadow Court without anyone knowing. Or caring to investigate.”

“Perhaps I should induct you into my company, Your Highness,” Anneith said lightly, her voice soft and lilting with an accent resembling that of the fishermen of the Golden Coast. “First, your dealings with the Shadow Court, and now His Majesty’s secret mission.” 

_ Secret mission?  _ Aerin opened his mouth to question what exactly Anneith was talking about when Ristridin seized his elbow, his grip cautioning.

Anneith turned at the waist, her footsteps never faltering as she bowed deferentially. “I commend you for your success in unveiling the Empire’s plot and obtaining some very powerful allies.”

“I…” Aerin glanced back at the rest of the party, who all looked even more confused than they had earlier. “I had help.”

“Yes,” Anneith hummed, facing forward once more. “Your father’s trust in you was not misplaced. I admit… I would not have thought the quest possible, or the chosen agents capable of carrying it out. But I suppose that is why your father did not reveal his hand until you had already shown your success.” 

Anneith turned back once more, her face repentant in the light of the runestone. “I hope you can forgive me, Your Highness, for doubting you. I… did not think very highly of you after the events with the Shadow Realm. I thought His Majesty was naive for refusing to pick another heir.” She chewed her lip, lowering her gaze to the floor as she turned away. “I did not think you were capable of being anything but a monster. But you have proved me wrong.”

Aerin blinked slowly. Took a deep breath to reply, lost the words, and blinked again. What in the rutting hells had his father said? Whatever it was, it was probably the biggest lie that had ever been told.

“I… thank you for your candor,” Aerin replied when he finally found his voice. He flexed his hands at his sides, which were numb with disbelief. “There is nothing to be forgiven, my lady. Your judgment of me was completely… completely deserved.”

The quiver in his voice was so slight, Aerin was certain Anneith had not detected it, although his friends did. Aerin felt the weight of a small hand between his shoulder blades―Nia’s―and another, heavier one atop his shoulder―Imtura’s. 

Before long, Anneith shouldered open a heavy stone door at the end of the passageway, leading them into the torchlit chamber of the Valleros crypts. Aerin sucked in a sharp breath, a chill rolling down his spine.

“Well, this is morbid,” Mal muttered beneath his breath. “I don’t like what this is hinting at.”

Imtura elbowed him hard in the gut. “Have some respect, Volari.”

“There is nothing wrong with what I said,” Mal snapped back, scowling, but Aerin hardly paid their squabbling any heed.

Interspersed between the quartz statues of old Valleros kings were about two dozen men and women―servants, knights, advisors from Arlan’s council, and generals. Clustered on one side of the crypt was a band of about twenty orcs. Imtura’s crew. The ragged gasp of surprise behind him told Aerin that Imtura had just noticed them as well. She rushed forward, accidentally shoving Aerin aside in her enthusiasm as she ran to greet her people.

“Kraglin! Marglin!”

Aerin did not see the happy reunion. His attention was solely focused on the makeshift war table that was stationed at the back of the crypt and was covered in maps and trinkets that were supposed to represent the Morellian army and their allies. The table was surrounded by the generals and strategists of the war council, and at the head of the assembly with his hands spread out across the map―

A choked sound left Aerin’s mouth, his voice a gravelly rasp.  _ “Father.” _

* * *

Mor touched down about sixty paces from the Emperor and the ballista, the closest they could get without squashing their own men. Iliana slid down Mor’s flank first, blade already out as her boots hit the scorched, bloodstained earth. She raised the Blade of Sol high as the first of the Empire’s grunts ran for her, coming closer, closer,  _ closer, _ until she could finally see in startling clarity the faces of the enemy that had plagued her dreams for weeks. 

Iliana only had one thought:  _ They look like us. _

And then she began to cut them down.

Orcs, humans, and elves. Iliana did not know what names they went by in the Shadow Realm, but regardless of their moniker, they fell beneath her blade all the same. She had only ever met the members of the Shadow Court and their minions, but Iliana had once read that the Shadow Realm was a dark mirror of the Light, symmetrical but tainted. 

_ The Binary Realms.  _ That was what the Watcher had called them.

On the surface, Empire soldiers almost looked the same. Their skin was paler, the colors of their hair duller, as if they had been painted in shades, or had never seen the light of day. The only real difference, Iliana discovered, was that the Empire soldiers bled black.

It made her sick. Every swing of her sword, every stabbing motion, felt like a crime committed against her own people. She would have rather faced thousands of nightmarish, gruesome, unrecognizable beasts than a host that looked like her own.

Iliana thought of the orcs of Flotilla and Imtura’s crew. The Undermount elves, in their glorious finery. The humans of Riverbend and her neighbors in Whitetower. She thought of them all as she cut down their likeness, left soldiers in black armor bleeding out on the ground.

An Empire human charged her and Iliana lifted her blade, driving it clean through his stomach, the black metal of his chest plate kissing hers. Up close, through the gap in his helm, she saw a pair of familiar hazel eyes set in an unfamiliar face, felt blood coat the back of her already slick hands. Iliana shoved the soldier off of her, leaving him in a pile on the ground, then doubled over, vomiting onto the earth.

The soldier did not even look like Aerin, the only likeness was their eyes, but it was too much. These people were real, not just faceless enemies in her dreams, and she was taking their lives. Her blood was loud in her ears, drowning out haggard shouts, savage war cries, and the clang of steel against armor against flesh.

A hand hooked into the back of Iliana’s armor and tugged, lifting her to her feet. Instinctively, Iliana whirled, her body lunging to attack when someone gripped her upper arms, pinning them in place with considerable strength as they turned her.

_ Tyril, _ Iliana thought, nearly sagging in his arms as her gaze landed on her dearest friend. He was breathing hard, his face splattered with blood―red and black―glacial blue eyes bright with fear and concern. He was talking to her, shouting something, but all Iliana could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears. Everything else faded into the background.

Iliana stared uncomprehendingly at him, her breathing quickening as she suddenly became aware of a sharp, stinging sensation at the center of her palm which quickly developed into a white-hot  _ burn _ ―

“Saints!” Iliana hissed, ripping her gauntlet-less hand out of Tyril’s, a small blue flame dissipating in his palm. There was an angry red welt at the center of her hand.

“You weren’t responding,” he said, his voice a winded rasp as he braced his hand against the side of her head, pulling her close. “I had to. To see if you were alright.”

Iliana opened her mouth, tasting the remnants of bile and the metallic tang of blood on her tongue. It took her a few tries to speak, to regain motor control of her body. When she finally could, all Iliana could say was, “They’re us. They look like us.”

“I know,” Tyril replied, his face ashen beneath all of that blood. “I saw…” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to banish the memory. “The same white-blonde hair, but her eyes were blue like the sea, not like the sky.”

Iliana knew who he saw. Adrina.

Iliana wrenched her gaze away from him, catching the Emperor in her sights. Thirty paces away now, so close. Her blood burned anew. 

“I’m going to end this now,” she vowed. “Before thousands more have to die.”

Tyril nodded. “I will guard your back.”

They pushed on, swords plunging and lifting, their breath burning in their throats as they cleared a path to the Emperor. Iliana’s magic snapped out of her, white forks of lightning crackling across the battlefield, felling soldiers as Tyril’s blasts of dark energy pinned them to the ground. Behind them, Mor roared, his flames incinerating any Ash warriors that came within a twenty-foot radius, the sweltering heat of his fire felt all across the field.

Thirty paces.

Twenty.

Ten.

Iliana was upon the Emperor. She did not balk, did not stop to question why he was here, in the heart of battle, why he was not fighting, why his sword was still sheathed at his side. She shattered the ballista to little pieces of wood and shrapnel with barely a thought, her lighting crackling through the air.

She stopped five feet away from the Emperor. She was afraid, terrified. But she would not falter. Tyril was behind her, guarding her back from the surrounding soldiers, just as he had promised. Iliana flipped her blade in her hand and promised, “I am going to kill you.”

The Emperor smiled and unsheathed his sword. “You may try.”

* * *

_ “Father.” _

Arlan looked up at the noise, his eyes widening. He staggered out from behind the table. “Aerin?”

Aerin was already running forward, dodging around advisors and knights that looked on with a mixture of awe, caution, and tentative distrust at his appearance. No matter what their feelings were about Aerin and his return, or the story Arlan had whipped up, none of the people present moved to intercept him as Aerin sprinted through the crypt and flung himself into his father’s arms.

Aerin was trembling with relief. Even when Anneith and Ristridin had stated that Arlan was safe, Aerin had refused to believe it, refused to let that information sink into him in case it was later proved to be false. He did not think he would survive such a soul-crushing revelation. But this,  _ this _ ―

“My boy,” Arlan laughed, his voice watery as he clutched his son to him so tightly, Aerin could hardly breathe. “Oh, my boy. It’s really you.”

“I’m sorry,” Aerin babbled, pressing his face into his father’s shoulder, tears staining the royal red of his tunic. Aerin did not remember the last time his father had held him like this, the last time  _ anyone _ had held him like this, but he would not have traded this feeling for anything in the world. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know, Aerin,” Arlan replied, his large hand patting the back of Aerin’s armor. “So am I.”

Aerin drew back, attempting to subtly wipe his tears with the back of his hand. “You got my letter,” he said, a bit incredulous. “The army. You… you listened.”

Arlan nodded, his smile sad and tinged with bitter regret. “I should have listened sooner.”

Aerin stepped back, following his father’s gaze to the back corner of the crypt, the newest expansion. There, carved of quartz, was a statue of Baldur. Aerin turned back to his father who swallowed hard, emotion clear in his voice.

“I know he never became king, but…” Arlan trailed off, his bottom lip trembling ever so slightly beneath his white beard. Even after all of these months, the edge of grief had not yet been dulled. Aerin understood that. In a way, for him, it had been sharpened.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Aerin said softly, his tongue heavy in his mouth. “When you… when you laid him to rest.”

Arlan opened and closed his mouth a few times, then shook his head. “No matter. You’re here now. We can talk about the rest of it later.” 

_ You’re here now. _

Strange, how those three simple words brought a world of peace and comfort.  _ You’re here now. Now.  _ They did not undo the years of pain, lies, and wrongdoing on both sides, nor did they bury them. They did not have to. In a way, they were an acknowledgment.  _ Yes,  _ they seemed to say.  _ Yes. You weren’t here then and neither was I. Things are broken but it does not have to always be this way. _

Arlan’s gaze strayed from his son to the party behind him. He smiled tremulously. “And you brought help. Come,” he urged Aerin, guiding him to the war table. “Anneith’s ravens have been relaying messages from our scouts about the battle.”

Aerin glanced backward as his father ushered him forth. The spymaster and her crew were already gone, vanished into one of the many hidden passageways that were probably hidden throughout the tomb, presumably continuing their surveillance and communications throughout the palace. Ristridin approached, his hands clasped behind his back as he nodded to the other knights and advisors that were cloistered here, hiding. 

Behind him, Imtura jostled members of her crew, shameless tears trailing from the corners of her eyes. Kade wandered throughout the tomb, studying the inscriptions that lined the walls, marking the dead. Nia had found her way to the oldest part of the hall, where the first kings had been laid to rest. There, she gazed upon the quartz effigies of the Divine Valleros and his Priestess of Light, the founders of this dynasty. Mal leaned against the stone wall some distance behind her, looking on dutifully.

Aerin turned away, facing his father’s war council. Absent from the assembly were Knight-Commander Brona and her lieutenants, who oversaw Whitetower’s Knight Order, as well as a few generals of the army, all of whom were probably deep in the heart of the battlefield. Or dead. Those who were present―a few retired commanders, strategists, and a blonde-haired, middle-aged noble Aerin recognized as Lord Roiben―bowed their heads at Aerin’s arrival. “Your Highness.”

The greeting was disjointed, far from warm, but the respect was there. Whether that respect was false or forced, Aerin did not have time to discern. But for now, the discontent in the court was muzzled.  _ For now,  _ Aerin reminded himself again. He did not doubt that the claws would come out when all of this trouble came to pass.

Aerin nodded to the council, then gestured toward the map on the table that clearly displayed the fields of Cragheart, which was dotted with trinkets Aerin supposed were meant to represent the involved armies. As Ristridin stepped into place beside him and greeted the King, Aerin asked, “What is all of this?”

It was Lord Roiben who replied. One of the two dozen lords of Whitetower, Roiben oversaw and funded most of Morella’s weapon production, a project that had been sidelined in times of peace. Nevertheless, Aerin was not surprised that Roiben was here. Presumably, Arlan had called him the same time he gathered the army.

With a pale, finely-manicured finger, Roiben pointed to a cluster of black buttons at the center of Cragheart. “This is the Empire’s host.” He pointed to a few beads scattered amongst the buttons. “The Avian Kingdom’s fighters.” A set of silver coins on the northern edge of the battlefield. “Our army.” A single chess piece made of chipped ivory. The Queen. “And your, ah, dragon.”

Aerin’s chest tightened to the point of pain as he stared at that chess piece.  _ Iliana. _

“What is the latest development?” Ristridin questioned.

Aerin swallowed the lump in his throat as he listened, desperately wishing they had a scrying mirror instead of a dusty old map. That way, they could actually see how the battle was unfolding rather than depend on a bunch of birds to relay information that changes with every passing moment. 

_ I should be there,  _ Aerin thought as he stared at the map, unable to tear his gaze away from that ivory chess piece. But then, he forced himself to turn away, catching his father in his sight.  _ I need to be here. _

One of the old generals held up a tattered piece of parchment. “According to our scouts, our forces have the Empire’s host pinned between them and are hammering from three sides.”

“And?” Aerin prompted, subconsciously leaning forward in rapt attention.

“And it looks like we are winning,” Roiben said smoothly, straightening his willowy frame as he bowed his head. “Thanks to your efforts, Prince Aerin,” he added, almost as an afterthought. His praise sounded honest enough, but the lord’s icy blue eyes lacked any sincerity. Already, it seemed the conniving machinations of gaining favor in the court had begun.

Before Aerin could dive headfirst into the political game he had been groomed since birth to play and grace Roiben with a reply, Ristridin mercifully spoke. 

“But that is Cragheart,” the Captain asserted dogmatically. “We must focus on what  _ we _ are to do.” He leaned forward, bracing his weight on the war table as he captured the attention of the council, his station as the King’s Right Hand granting him authority. “Brief me on our situation and our options.”

One of the strategists unfurled another document, a map that displayed the layout of the palace and its network of hidden passages. Many of which were crossed out in charcoal. “The Left Hand is working on scouting the safest paths out. Many of the tunnels have collapsed in the explosions that our remaining knights are attempting to excavate…”

As the other members of the war council filled the Captain in, Aerin redirected his attention to Arlan, lowering his voice so that only the King could hear. “What did you tell them about me? No one has locked me up yet, and spymaster Anneith was very… welcoming.” 

“The truth,” Arlan replied, shifting his thick cape as he laid his bejeweled hand atop the ornate pommel of his sword. “With some minor adjustments.”

Aerin arched a brow. “Such as?

“All of the relevant information you told me.” The King’s eyes sparkled conspiratorially, as if they were sharing nothing more than an innocent secret. “Although I may have led them to believe that all of it was a covert, sanctioned mission. The second and final part of your sentence.”

Aerin shook his head, uncomprehending. “But why?”

“Your return to court will not be easy, Aerin,” Arlan said softly. “Your entire life has not been easy. I know this now. Let me do this for you. If only because I did not do it sooner.”

Aerin’s chest tightened and he turned, putting the war table at his back as he fully faced the King. His voice bordered on a plea, although Aerin did not know what he was asking for. Mercy, perhaps, for a kindness and forgiveness that was not quite deserved. “Father―”

There was a loud grinding noise as a stone panel in the walls of the crypt slid inward, revealing the passageway Aerin had entered through only a handful of minutes ago. 

King Arlan straightened, face paling in horror. “Lady Anneith!”

The halfling spymaster and her crew stumbled into the crypt, covered in a thick layer of ash, soot, and splattered blood. 

“Healer!” one of the spies called, although Aerin could not discern which one had spoken from the cluster. “We need a healer!”

Aerin quickly saw why. Anneith was at the center of her crew, her arms looped around the shoulders of her men, face ashen as they laid her down on the worn stone of the tomb’s floor. The side of her face was coated in blood, her light brown hair matted with it. She gazed up at the ceiling with one pain-clouded, violet eye, for the other was gone.

Ristridin was hovering by the new arrivals in moments, the rest of the war council―Aerin included―following suit, his gaze flicking between them and the open passageway, which he quickly dragged shut. Ristridin turned to one of the other halfling spies. “What in the seven hells happened?”

“Let me through!” Nia yelped, trying to weave through the assembled crowd, her head of auburn hair bobbing amongst everyone else’s shoulders. “I can help!”

Aerin wedged himself between a cluster of advisors, holding his hand out to pull Nia through. She crouched beside Anneith, pulling the spymaster’s head into her lap, rivulets of bright blood staining Nia’s pale trousers. Despite the gore, the priestess did not balk. As Anneith babbled incoherently, her voice too low and hoarse to be heard, Nia held her hands over the woman’s face and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath to center herself, then her hands began to glow silver with the healing magic of the Light.

Nia took the pain away first, cooling tendrils of her magic seeping into Anneith’s pale skin. Almost instantly, the spymaster’s breathing leveled out, her chest rising and falling rhythmically, her lips quelling their trembling.

“We were ambushed,” Anneith rasped, her voice tremulous and strained. Nia’s hands glowed brighter and the flow of blood gradually trickled to a halt. “The moment we rounded a corner in the West Wing, we were attacked. They knew we were coming.” She swallowed hard, cadence faltering as her breath hitched. “The mage, she… she got into my head. They know about the passageways. We collapsed the western passage, but…” 

Aerin felt his blood run cold. His gaze snapped to Ristridin, then to his father, searching for guidance as Anneith said, “They know we’re here.”

“We need to go,” Aerin said as the assembled crowd broke out into a cacophony of frantic whispers and exclamations of fear. He started toward the war table. “If we go now, we can take one of the other passageways, to another safe room―perhaps the gallery―if only to buy ourselves some time to figure something else out―”

Aerin was abruptly cut off by a thundering noise, a loud and brutal  _ BANG! _

A hush fell over the room as all eyes snapped to the set of ash wood doors that sat atop a set of stairs, leading to the rest of the palace proper, barricaded by pieces of stray furniture and a few, old, crumbling statues.

That noise sounded again, dust raining down atop the steps as the doors shuddered beneath the force of an unseen intruder. The ash wood groaned but did not buckle. Aerin knew its strength would not hold forever.

Aerin snatched the map of the palace from the table, upsetting the trinkets weighing it down, and thrust it at one of Anneith’s spies. “Go,” he urged her. “I assume you know these tunnels well. Lead these people to somewhere safe.”

“What about Lady Anneith?” she questioned and Aerin looked down to where Nia still tended to the wounded spymaster. Nia shook her head.

“She will follow when she is well enough to move,” Aerin answered, dragging his gaze back to the agent. He searched the crowd. “Kade, go with them. Send word to your sister if you can and tell her what happened.”

“What about you?” he asked, lips tugging into a frown.

Aerin’s answer came easily, his words full of conviction and duty. “I will guard your backs. Now, go. Quickly.”

His eyes widened, moss-green and full of uncertainty. “Prince Aerin―”

Another crash sounded against the door, the hinges squealing beneath the force.

_ “Go,” _ Aerin repeated as he drew his sword and faced the doors to the crypt, putting himself between the cluster of people that began to follow Anneith’s agent through the passageway.

_ BOOM! BOOM! _

Ristridin’s fingers clamped around Aerin’s wrist, yanking him aside, his voice as sharp as Aerin had ever heard it. “What are you doing, boy?”

“Protecting them,” Aerin replied, tugging his arm from Ristridin’s grasp as he ground his teeth. “What else?”

“You want to stand against an invading force that destroyed half of the palace?” Ristridin snapped, grabbing the back of Aerin’s armor and hauling him back, although the prince stood firm.

“You would have me run, I know, Captain,” Aerin said, shirking Ristridin off. He looked over the Captain’s shoulder, observing the advisors and servants that filed through the passageway. “But if we do nothing, then the Ash forces still catch up to us and instead of fighting here, we will do so in a cramped tunnel.”

“Then let us do the fighting,” Ristridin insisted, waving his hand toward the remaining knights and spies. “That is what we are trained to do.”

Aerin’s gaze tracked his hand, sliding over the weary knights, wounded spies, and retired generals that stood in the crypt. People, his people. Aerin did not doubt their abilities, even while worn with age and burdened by injuries. But their force was too small, too mortal for the threat that waited on the other side.

Another crash. A piece of furniture tumbled free of the pile that blocked the doorway, clattering on the steps.

Aerin shook his head. “I came here to protect my father and my kingdom, and that is what I intend to do. There is no greater purpose for me now other than saving my people. In this, I will not be swayed. I am staying here for as long I must, for as long as I can.”

“Not alone, you won’t.”

Aerin turned to find Imtura, her fingers wrapped tightly around her axes, her pirate crew at her back. 

Aerin opened his mouth to deter her, but he knew he could not afford to turn away any help. Instead, he asked, “Are you certain?”

“As can be,” she replied with a roguish grin. “Fighting is what we’re good at, isn’t that right men?” she questioned her crew, her voice full of a self-assuredness Aerin had not heard from her in weeks. She was back in her element, he knew, surrounded by the men and women she commanded. Loved. A unified cry met her question in wordless assent. 

“There you have it, palace rat,” Imtura shrugged. “It’s what I came here to do. Whether it’s on a battlefield or a dusty tomb.”

“I’m staying too,” Mal stated as he tightened the straps of his shoulder plate. His eyes drifted to Nia, still hunched over Anneith’s ashen form, then lifted to meet Aerin’s gaze. “Someone’s got to protect you while you’re protecting them. That’ll be me.”

“No.  _ No,”  _ someone protested, although this time, it was not Captain Ristridin.

“Father,” Aerin said, moving to pull away as Arlan clasped his hand although the King held firm.

“You  _ will _ go, Aerin,” Arlan asserted, voice full of command. “I will not have my only son fight here.”

Aerin ground his teeth, fingers tightening around his blade as he stared at his father, stubborn as ever. “That is not your decision to make. Go, Father. Follow the others.”

Arlan narrowed his eyes. “Aerin―”

_ BOOM! _

More furniture topped free from the barricade. A crumbling statue fell, bursting into hundreds of shards of quartz.

_ BOOM! _

The hinges squealed, ashwood splintered and groaned.

_ BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! _

The wood buckled and broke, their last bit of luck dissolving into dust, time fully run out, as the doors to the crypts burst open.

* * *

Tendrils of Shadow whipped out of the Emperor’s hand, batting Iliana’s first few strikes aside. She blasted them away, her Light spearing through the darkness, and felt the solid reverberation of her blade locking against his.

“Bastard,” she snarled, then reared back to kick him in the chest and―

The Shadow. A wave of it slammed down upon her, but it did not smother her, did not  _ hurt _ her. 

Iliana could not see, could not even hear anything beyond her own breathing. Tyril, who had only been a few feet away from her, was gone. It was as if a blanket had been thrown over her, smothering her senses. 

Blood tickled the bow of her upper lip―a nosebleed. Her skull pounded as if she were deep beneath the waves, the pressure of an entire ocean pushing down on her head. This was the Shadow, but this power was unlike anything she had ever encountered before. 

From the silence, someone began to scream.

Iliana’s heart kickstarted in her chest. “Kade!”

Iliana whirled, just as the world flashed bright and her senses came rushing back to her. 

She was beneath the Dreadlord’s palace, standing in the dungeons. She could feel the heat of molten rock, simmering from the hallway that stretched on her right. The stench of ash, heated metal, and unwashed bodies flooded her nose, and beneath all of that, blood.

Another scream ripped through the air.  _ “Iliana!” _

“Kade!” she shouted again. It came from the end of the hallway that stood before her. She ran, hurling herself down the corridor. “Kade! I’m here!”

A low, sensual laugh echoed down the never-ending hallway, soft and alluring, like a lover’s, although there was nothing tender about it. Iliana felt a breath on the back of her neck, snaking up the shell of her ear. She turned, blade held out before her, and just barely caught a glimpse of pearl-white hair, dark grey skin.

_ Baron Vostrasz. _

“What’s this?” he crooned, his voice echoing all around Iliana, although the Shadow Court’s torturer was nowhere to be seen. “A new pet to play with?”

“I am no one’s pet,” Iliana hissed. “Especially not yours.”

“No?” Vostrasz’s voice purred. “That’s a shame. We could have had so much fun together. But your brother will have to do.”

“Don’t touch him!” Iliana slashed her blade through the empty air, her panic rising and then―

Iliana halted, her gaze snagging on the gleam of the Blade of Sol in the murky shadows of the dungeon. She turned the sword her hand, the sapphires inlaid in the hilt winking back at her, reflecting… light.

Iliana’s hands began to glow as she called upon the Light.

_ It’s not real,  _ she told herself.  _ It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real. _

The moment she realized that, the Dreadlord’s dungeon faded into oblivion, leaving Iliana at the center of an oppressive storm of darkness.

Iliana flexed her fingers. _ Not so oppressive.  _

Two silver lights flared to life, luminous lanterns that bobbed in the shadows, twin stars burning alone in the dead of night. Iliana took a deep breath, and the Light began to grow. The Light bloomed from the palms of her hands, spreading up her arms and across her shoulders so that she could once again see herself. Her entire body imbued with the Light, Iliana burned brighter until the darkness around her turned to shades of mist and smoke, then―

A whirlwind of blue flame whirled around her, ripping the darkness to shreds.  _ Tyril. _

When it was gone, Iliana stood on the fields of Cragheart once more, the battle warring around her. Burning like the midnight sun, Iliana turned back to the Emperor, and lunged.

Iliana slammed her blade against the Emperor’s, putting nothing but brute force behind her blow. A tendril of Shadow speared from the Emperor’s fingertips, reaching for Iliana’s temple, but she blasted it away with barely a thought.

“Stay out of my head!” Iliana snarled viciously, locking her blade against the Emperor’s. She reached out with her other hand, the one that bore Imtura’s gauntlet, and backhanded him across the face. 

Iliana did not ease up, did not give the bastard a chance to strike back, an opening to attack. As the Emperor staggered back, she slashed her sword, its sharp tip carving a deep groove into the front of his breastplate. He lifted his blade but Iliana threw up her other hand, a blast of pure energy emitting from her palm, throwing his weapon from his grasp. She lunged, Blade of Sol poised to stab clean through his chest, but the Emperor dodged, quick as a shadow.

No matter. Iliana waved her arm and a torrent of flame appeared in the exact place the Emperor had dodged, singing his arm. Pain rippled across those beautiful features, but where Iliana had previously balked at inflicting harm to people that looked so much like her own, she now felt only grim satisfaction. 

Iliana advanced, swinging her sword like a vengeful spirit, hellbent on spilling blood. She stabbed through his shoulder, sliced the back of his hand, burned his leg, melting skin beneath his greaves. The damage she inflicted was awful. But it felt good to bring.

Staring into the bloody and bruised visage of the Emperor, Iliana grabbed the collar of his breastplate and drew her elbow back, prepared to deliver the final, debilitating blow.

_ Too easy,  _ something in her mind warned.  _ This is too easy. _

She did not care.

Iliana drove the blade home.

The Blade of Sol punched into the Emperor’s stomach, spearing through skin and muscle and bone. The Emperor made a gurgling noise and black blood bubbled up through his perfect lips, spilling down his chin.

“A promise is a promise,” Iliana murmured, staring into those golden eyes. “I said I would kill you, Emperor, and now I will.”

To her surprise, the dark ruler smiled as those golden eyes shifted to pools of inky black. “I am not the Emperor.”

Iliana took an unsteady step back as the Emperor―no, not the Emperor―transformed before her eyes. Suntanned, tawny skin leached itself of color, becoming the color of pale parchment. Flaxen hair darkened to long, oily tresses, and delicately sculpted lips transformed into thin, cracked ones. A woman stood before her. A mage.

She laughed at Iliana’s surprise, a harsh, brittle sound. “He’s not here, Light-Realmer. Did you really think he would waste his time in a piddling battle such as this?”

“You mean he is a coward,” Iliana snapped, fingers tightening around the hilt of her blade, which was still buried in the mage’s stomach. “He would not fight me so he sent you to do it for him.”

“Oh, no, you are mistaken,” the mage rasped liltingly, even as she choked on her own blood. “This is only the beginning.  _ This _ is a taste of what is to come. A test, to see what the Light Realm can do.” She chuckled brokenly. “He has a message for you. Would you like to hear it?”

Iliana’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean―”

The mage opened her mouth, and this time, when she spoke, it was not in her voice, but the Emperor’s. “Soon, little star,” she cooed with a bloody smile. “Today, I am not here for you.”

Iliana’s heart stopped in her chest. “Who…”

Those dark, depthless eyes slid from Iliana’s face to the north. To Whitetower.

“No,” she breathed. 

“Yes,” the mage replied, her voice once again hers. “You won’t be able to save them. You have your own battle to win.” Her mouth spread into a gruesome smile, dry lips cracking. “If you can.” She leaned in, voice a wet rasp. “Prepare for the rest of the first wave.”

Iliana’s eyes widened and her attention snapped to the right, toward the southern border of Cragheart, where the portal to the Shadow Realm began to crackle with a new intensity. Iliana looked behind her, where Tyril was still fighting, and much further behind him, Mor. Her allies spread thin. Distracted. Gone was their strategy of pinning the Ash forces between them. When reinforcements came, they would be overwhelmed.

_ It was a trap. _

The mage began to cackle, drawing Iliana’s attention back to her. “Pieced it together, have you?” she asked.

Iliana glowered at her. She needed to get back to Mor, needed to warn their allies, needed to find a way to stop the rest of the Ash forces from entering their realm, or at least stop as many as she could. Lightning crackled at the ends of Iliana’s fingertips as she stared at the swirling rift.

She would have to close the breach. Seal the Veil.

And after all of that… She turned to Whitetower. She would try to save them as well. If she could.

Iliana turned back to the mage, her power churning like a storm. She smiled grimly and the mage’s laughter faltered. “As I said. A promise is a promise,” Iliana said lowly. “You are still going to die.”

Iliana reached forward, pressing her hands to the side of the mage’s skull as arcs of lightning raced down her arms. When Iliana was done, she pulled the Blade of Sol free, leaving the smoking corpse of the Ash mage on the ground, eyes burned black.

She turned away, already calling for Tyril and Mor’s attention, when the rest of the first wave began to emerge through the rift.

* * *

_ BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! _

The doors to the crypt buckled, gave, and swung open. 

Aerin watched as, in the wake of the wreckage, a man with flaxen hair, seemingly woven of sunlight, and eyes of burnished gold, entered the tomb and smiled.


	35. Kingdom of Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We fight. We die. And we pray we will be avenged."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: blood, death, and violence.

The beautiful man stood in the entryway to the tomb, a placid smile on his face, golden eyes shimmering amidst a sea of inky black. Beside him stood two other denizens of the Empire, identifiable by the dark armor they wore. 

Aerin noted with a start that their appearance was familiar―a female elf and a male orc. A mage and a warrior, respectively, Aerin assumed, judging by the items they carried. In her ebony hands, the elven mage held a staff carved of black wood, embedded with a black orb― _ Onyx, _ Aerin realized with dread―and adorned with what appeared to be braids of golden hair. The orc warrior hefted a morning star against his armored shoulder.

More startling than their appearance, however, was the sight of two dozen Morellian knights, lined up behind them, blank-faced and silent. Obedient men waiting for orders, trapped under a spell. 

“Who are you?” Aerin demanded, holding his blade diagonally across his body as he addressed the golden man.

The man’s smile widened. When he spoke, his voice was lovely, carnal, and cruel. “Your friends know me simply as the Emperor. There are no words in your language that quite translate into my true name. But you may call me Osaron.”

_ Osaron. _ Aerin shivered at the sound of it. No, that name was not one that he knew in the common tongue, or any of the other languages he’d been taught in his lessons. It sounded otherworldly. Ancient.  _ Powerful. _ Aerin narrowed his eyes.  _ “What _ are you?”

While the mage and the warrior were familiar figures, Aerin did not know what to make of the Emperor. He looked human, but there was a distinct sense of…  _ otherness  _ about him, that went beyond his void-like scleras. It made Aerin’s mind feel hazy. Intoxicated. Like he was drunk on power he did not have.

Aerin had intimate knowledge of what it was like to crave power, to be seduced by it. The memory of that was enough to make him wary of the way he felt now.

The Emperor―Osaron―tilted his head as a low, alluring laugh left his perfect lips. “Clever prince. What kind of ruler will you be? A wise one? A kind one? Perhaps a strong one? I wonder if you will live to find out.”

“Aerin,” Arlan said as he unsheathed his sword. It was the first time Aerin had ever seen the Gentle King do so. His father spoke slowly, deliberately―a ruler giving orders. “Go.”

But Aerin did not go. Instead, he held his ground, keeping his back to the passageway through which their people fled, and lifted his sword, just as Osaron waved his hand, and the Morellian knights charged into the crypt.

* * *

Iliana’s breath was a harsh rasp in her chest, but she did not dare stop. It felt as if an entire battlefield lay between her, Tyril, and Mor, not the mere sixty paces she had slaughtered her way across earlier. Perhaps the distance felt greater because she was exhausted, or perhaps it was because she now felt the crushing weight of everything she had to do―get to Mor, get to the rift, close the rift, defeat the army, get to the palace.  _ Or perhaps, _ it was because there were so many more enemies on all sides, Ash soldiers streaming through the rift by the second. They were already outnumbered. If the rest of the Ash forces came through, they would be overwhelmed. 

The fight against the Dreadlord and his minions in the Shadow Realm had been nothing compared to this. In a way, that fight didn’t seem realㅡthe  _ soldiers  _ weren’t real _.  _ Not like the Empire’s soldiers were. This was the first true battle Iliana had ever seen, but it was enough for her to know she never wished to see it again. The noise, the chaos, the blood, the screaming―

But Iliana did not falter. With Tyril by her side, blades and magic sundering the soldiers between them, she did not give in to her exhaustion. She only slaughtered onward, teeth gritted in grim determination.

It felt like an eternity had passed before they finally reached Mor’s side, ash and charred bone crumbling underfoot.

“To the rift,” Iliana commanded breathlessly as she sheathed her sword and hauled herself up into the saddle, reaching down to lend Tyril a hand up. “I have to close it.”

“How?” Tyril panted behind her as Mor released one last barrage of fire, then lifted them into the air, his great wings fanning the flames. 

Iliana shrugged, silently instructing Mor to raze the incoming Ash forces as they flew toward the rift. She felt electric, buzzing with magic. “We’ve done it before,” she said, recalling the portal they had closed after returning from the Shadow Realm. “I just have to do it again. Repair the Veil.”

“For a rift that large?” Tyril returned, using blasts of magic to destroy pieces of incoming ballistas and catapults as they were hauled through the rift, damaging them just enough to be useless. His attacks were vicious, but Iliana could tell that his strength was starting to wane. Tyril shook his head. “That will demand everything from you. If you succeed, you will be thoroughly exhausted. If it… if it does not kill you, first.”

Iliana nodded. She suspected as much, but what other choice did they have? They needed to get that rift closed, both to prevent the influx of Ash soldiers and the retreat of those that were already here. 

_ This is only the beginning.  _ This  _ is a taste of what is to come. A test, to see what the Light Realm can do. _

If what that mage had said was true, that this was only the beginning, well… Every Ash troop that failed to return to the Shadow Realm was one less troop they would have to face later.

“I’m stronger than before,” Iliana said at last, even as she stared at that swirling breach, a pit of dread roiling in the depths of her stomach. “And either way, we don’t have a choice.” 

_ “Vaelor va l’ghilanamas, Nifara va l’abelasamas,” _ Tyril whispered softly as he stared at the destruction below.

“What does that mean?” Iliana opened her eyes, glancing back at him.

“‘Vaelor guide us, Nifara forgive us,’” Tyril translated distractedly, his eyes searching the sea of violence―assessing, strategizing. “Recall that most elves believe the Old Gods rode their beasts, although we now know them to be one and the same. Nifara is the elven name of the Mother―or I suppose the Mother Bear, giver and protector of life. Vaelor is our god of war and strength, associated with the Sky Dragon. It’s a common prayer spoken by our people before a battle. It asks for valor in battle and forgiveness for taking life, even in times of war. I did not say it earlier because I did not think…” Tyril shook his head, pressing his lips together, face pale beneath all of the blood and grime. “They are people, just like us.”

The very thought of that made Iliana’s stomach roil. The black blood that coated her―crusting beneath her nails, plastering her hair to her temple―it felt like a brand, one that stained her soul just as much as it stained her skin. It marked her as one who had engaged in the ultimate crime. 

Iliana recalled the six-eyed Mother Bear she encountered in the other realm. The gods were not what the elves believed them to be, but nevertheless, Iliana thought,  _ Nifara forgive us indeed. _

_ Vaelor, _ Iliana said to Mor, brows drawing together.  _ You have another name. _

_ Granted by the people who made me a god,  _ the dragon replied dryly.  _ They made me more than what I am, but less. It is a name that is undeserved. There is no valor in bringing destruction and death. Strength, but no honor. _

_ There is honor,  _ Iliana disagreed,  _ in protecting others.  _ She had to believe that. Or else she could never be rid of the blood that clung to her skin. _ You may think yourself undeserving of the title, but by the end of this war, Vaelor, you will have earned your name. I swear it. I brought you here for a reason, one that goes beyond bestowing death. _

Mor huffed, his fire carving deep grooves into the earth. Iliana did not need to hear his thoughts to know that he disagreed with her, at least not where  _ his  _ honor was concerned. It seemed that her war machine of a god was also something of a thoughtful pacifist. The soldier that was most skilled in war was also the one who was most reluctant to wage it. If Aerin was here, she was certain he might have laughed at the irony. 

For a moment, she simply allowed herself to feel the wind against her face―cold, wicked, and free. It caressed her skin and sang to her, telling her of its currents, of the places it would take her. One day she would find those places. One day, she would take this beastly companion of hers, two killers that were already weary of this fighting, and they would go searching for far-off places, unbound by war and duty.

_ One day,  _ Iliana promised herself.  _ One day. _

Iliana stared down at the battlefield, at the fire and ruin that marred the earth. As they soared closer to the rift, she watched the battle unfold, unable to ignore the horrible truth that even with all of their efforts―the Avian Kingdom’s aid and King Arlan’s understanding―they could still lose. All of their efforts would be for naught if she didn’t close that rift. And to think that this was only the beginning… 

_ You are scared, _ Mor observed. Iliana wondered if it was possible that he could feel her fear through their tether.

_ I am terrified, _ she corrected, her fingers tightening around one of the spikes that lined the back of Mor’s neck as they began to descend, the scent of blood and smoke filling her lungs once more.

_ Good, _ the dragon replied and Iliana nearly laughed at the simplicity of that statement. Telepathically, he continued,  _ It means you have something to lose, something you will fight to protect. Remember what is at stake and let it ground you. _

Iliana willed herself not to look north, toward Whitetower, where almost everyone she loved currently resided, their fates unknown. Instead, she asked,  _ Are you afraid? _

_ I was once, _ Mor rumbled in her mind.  _ Perhaps one day, I will be again. _

Iliana nodded to herself, drawing in a deep breath of tainted air as she gathered her resolve.  _ One day,  _ she thought again.  _ One day. _

One day they would have peace. But for now, they would fight.

Iliana twisted around to face Tyril, her dearest friend, with whom their time together had been cut short. Despite her best efforts to quell her fear, her voice trembled. “Will you guard my back?”

Tyril’s brows rose, lips parting in surprise. She knew what he saw. A girl at the center of a war no one asked for, tired and afraid. Ultimately, Tyril nodded― _ of course,  _ he nodded―his expression solemn as he grasped her upper arm. “I will. I told you before that I am with you. Until the bitter end.”

Iliana nodded, closing her eyes in relief. Whatever happened next, at least she would not be alone. “Thank you.”

Iliana faced forward once more, tightening her legs around Mor’s flank and preparing for their descent. Then, her fearful heart clamoring in her ears, she whispered,  _ “Vaelor va l’ghilanamas, Nifara va l’abelasamas.” _

In response, Mor roared, spewing fire across the battlefield, then dove toward the breach.

* * *

Aerin did not want to take any lives.

Up until this day, the only blood that had stained his hands and his hands alone had been Baldur’s and the wooly guard in the Khagan’s fortress that tried to kill Iliana first. 

That was no longer the case.

Aerin tried to spare the knights― _ his _ knights―that attacked. Although he did not recognize any of the them, did not know any of them the way he knew Ristridin and his Thirteen―a small mercy, he thought, although it did not make his task any easier―Aerin first tried to reason with them, desperately hoping to snap them out of whatever magic held them hostage, but to no avail. 

When reasoning did not work, Aerin tried to subdue them, the way he had with the city guard in the heartoak forest the night they escaped from Whitetower. But under the mage’s spell, the knights were not easily stopped. A blow to the side of the head that would have dropped even an orc did nothing to deter most of their advances.

Now, all Aerin could do was slice and stab and hope that the wounds he dealt were not lethal, hope that when all of this was over, the knights they felled would survive. Most of them. He already knew that they could not spare them all.

Aerin did not know how this compulsion worked. He did not know if it somehow trapped the knights, if they had become prisoners in their own heads, forced to watch as their bodies obeyed a will that was not their own. He hoped, perhaps selfishly, that the knights knew they were not to blame and that he took no joy in striking them down.

Aerin had been protecting Nia and Anneith when he killed his first knight. 

He’d been too focused on trying to reason with a different knight while also keeping both his father  _ and _ Osaron―who simply watched from the entrance of the crypt―to realize how everyone else’s own fight had left Nia unprotected as she tried to get the halfling spymaster back on her feet. One moment, he had been dodging around another knight’s blade, parrying as best he could, and the next he had wedged himself between Anneith and the man that swung for her, his blade buried in his chest all the way up to the hilt.

A gasp, a groan, and a gurgle, and the light in those dark blue eyes had gone out. Blood was hot on his hands, his arms suddenly taking on the weight of a limp body, ears ringing with the sound of weapons clashing around them and the knight’s sword clattering to the ground at Anneith and Nia’s feet.

_ It was either him or me,  _ Iliana had said when he saved her life in Vishanti. It was a simple fact of battle, but Aerin could not help but wonder when the idea of “us or them” would shift from being a cold truth to a blind excuse. And how much did the rationale “us or them” really matter if an innocent man still died in the end?

Aerin stared down the still-warm body of the knight as it slumped to the ground for a few moments, bile rising in his throat. Dark blood spreading across grey sandstone contrasted with the memories of crimson waterfalls on white marble stairs. Ichor gleaming on polished armor echoed watercolor stains on a royal blue tunic. Dull, midnight irises were wide, unseeing circlets of hazel.

Aerin swallowed the memories whole, the old and the new, and uttered, “Go,” to the two women he would die to defend―a dear friend and a near stranger―before turning back to the fight. A dazzling flash and a rush of wind told him that neither Nia nor even Anneith, with her new handicap, listened, although Aerin knew better than to try and order them around. 

Nia stepped in front of a wounded orc pirate, her arms spread wide as she used a blast of Light to hurl back a band of knights as she conjured a protective globe of shimmering magic. Anneith wove through the chaos, a makeshift bandage made of Nia’s sleeves concealing half of her face. Although her balance was a little off-kilter given her sudden impairment, she still moved with a dancer’s grace. Her fighting style with knives was not unlike Mal’s, but while he moved like a nimble and clever fox, Anneith was a wraith. Small petals of blood bloomed through her thin servant’s clothes, the result of shallow cuts taken as she adjusted to her new field of vision. But the spymaster did not seem to mind in the slightest, for every drop of blood she bled, she spilled in return―tenfold.

As Aerin engaged another knight, aiming for the back of her legs and moving with more precision and fluidity than he had ever fought with before, he was at once grateful and resentful of the lessons Iliana had given him. On one hand, her instruction kept him alive but on the other, it made inflicting violence so much easier. 

Once, when he was young and naive, Aerin begrudged the routine trips Arlan brought him and Baldur on to Whitetower’s armory. He did not understand the need for ballistas, trebuchets, and the near-constant production of melee weapons. His father was the Gentle King, and for years, Morella had only known peace. Then, he had balked at any notions of violence. Now he was entrenched in it.

Aerin ducked around the knight, whose movements were stiff despite being backed by unnatural strength, and slashed the back of her calves, severing ligaments and biting into muscle. As the knight fell to her knees, Aerin surveyed the crypt, picking out familiar faces amongst the melee. 

Ristridin fought nearby, King Arlan just on the Captain’s other side. Aerin was not sure if he was more relieved to see that his father still stood or if he was frustrated that the King had not left with his people. Mal, Anneith, and the other remaining spies and generals battled the knights near the back of the crypt. Nia was with Imtura and her crew, conjuring shields against bewitched Morellians as the pirates dealt with the knights and the Emperor’s orc general.

_ All of this fighting, _ Aerin thought,  _ and it still might not be enough.  _

Skilled as the King’s fighters were―or  _ once were _ , in the case of the retired generals and guards―many still fell. This battle was barely a skirmish compared to the one that warred in Cragheart, but the losses would hurt, because no matter which fighters fell―compelled knights or otherwise―they were still Morellian.

Aerin did not let himself think of how many remained. He thought only of the sword in his hand― _ Honor My Sword, _ it shone in the low light,  _ Truth My Shield _ ―and the cardinal instinct to survive. He would only let himself count when the fighting was over. If they survived. If they survived this battle, and the one beyond. Only then would he tally the dead.

There had to be a way to end this, Aerin rationalized as he pushed away another knight. A way to make this battle decisive, or to at least stave off the end until they could rally their forces. Battles were not won by numbers and strength alone. There had to be an element of strategy.

_ Think _ , he chided himself.  _ You’re good at strategizing. _

A statement that was true enough, but Aerin was finding it heart to think while also fighting for his life.

Aerin parried a sword that was aimed to take his head, then planted his foot against a shield and shoved away his attacker. He sucked in a sharp breath, the movement stirring something in him, making the puzzle pieces click together.

A memory rose up, his mind throwing at him all of the relevant fragments of information. 

_ He was twelve, sat at an ash wood table in the library, poring over some volume that discussed modern engineering in Morella. Baldur, surprisingly, was with him in the library, and for once, the Crown Prince was not being a menace amongst the old stacks. _

_ Baldur sauntered up to where Aerin sat quietly, arms laden with books. Aerin looked up out of the corner of his eye as Baldur released his books, letting them thud to the table. Despite himself, Aerin arched a brow as he surveyed the book on top. _

Morellian Beasts: the Wild, the Wicked, and the Weak.

_ Aerin pressed his lips together. Facile as the title was, Aerin supposed it was notable that the volume was not a picture book. At least not entirely.  _

_ He silently scooted his seat over, giving Baldur extra space to pull out his chair. Aerin winced as Baldur yanked the wooden seat back, its legs screeching against the floor then sat down, slapping his hands against the hard covers of his books and leaned forward. _

_ “Did you know,” Baldur crowed, unintentionally obnoxious as his eyes glittered with fascination, “that the best way to kill a monster is to cut off its head?” _

“Cut off its head,” Aerin murmured beneath his breath as he deflected and retaliated with his sword. “Of course.”

It was so obvious―so  _ painfully _ obvious. 

_ “Are they still in there?”  _ Aerin had asked in the palace hallway.  _ “It’s not permanent?” _

_ “I don’t know that either,”  _ Anneith had replied.  _ “I think so. I imagine if the spell is disrupted, the compulsion will end.” _

Aerin turned toward the entrance to the crypt, where Osaron still stood unbothered, merely observing the clash. An otherworldly being, content to watch the world burn.

The Emperor’s gold and onyx eyes glittered when his gaze locked with Aerin across the crypt, as if he knew Aerin had put the pieces together. Osaron inclined his head as if in invitation, his lips curving into a small smile.

_ Kill the mage, break the spell, free the knights,  _ Aerin reasoned. 

Aerin turned, scanning the room for Osaron’s enchanter. His heart puttered in his chest. Ever since the battle had started, he had yet to even glimpse the elven mage. _ Where…? _

“Looking for someone?” a venomous voice, dripping with nightshade, crooned.

Aerin barely had time to register who that voice belonged to as he turned before a slender, ebony hand gripped his jaw, pulling his face down so that he was eye-to-eye with Osaron’s dark mage. She let out a harsh scoff, maroon eyes glittering.  _ “Tal’raas,” _ she spat. “Weakling.”

And then she thrust her arm out, Shadow pouring down the length of it as she hurled him away with far more strength than her mortal body should have been capable of. Aerin felt the buzz of the Shadow’s magic, so familiar yet foreign, and a startling cold―so cold it burned―as he was thrown back, wind whistling in his ears.

His armor screeched against the grey sandstone and Aerin’s bones rattled together as he slammed into the ground and slid, his body colliding with the pedestal of a statue. 

“Aerin!”

He did not know who called his name―Ristridin or his father. Perhaps both.

A low groan emitted from the back of Aerin’s throat as he forced himself to his elbows and looked up, dazed. The quartz visage of one of his ancestors stared down at him, proud and cold.  _ King Maxim, _ Aerin’s subconscious offered. Then, doubtfully,  _ Or is it Orlon? _

Aerin shook his head, casting the useless thoughts away as he forced himself to his hands and knees. He just barely glimpsed a pair of black sabatons striding toward him, stepping carelessly through lakes of blood when another wave of Shadow crested over him and collapsed, pinning him to the ground once more.

Pain, everywhere. 

Aerin tried to gasp as his body flattened itself against the stone, enveloped in the Shadow. Cold knifed up his shins and spread over his body like a curtain, devouring first his vision of those sabatons, then the quartz base of Maxim’s statue, and then finally, the entire chamber. The Shadow―magic Aerin had once wielded with more familiarity than even his sword―was now turned against him. 

In agonized desperation, Aerin reached inside, searching for that kernel of power that once glowed in the center of his scarred chest. But there was nothing. The indigo moonblooms had thoroughly purged him of the ornery, near-sentient, Shadow, and as Nia had told him, he had no magic of his own―Light or otherwise. Not even an ember.

Aerin felt his bones creak, pain rippling down his spine, but before his body could shatter, the darkness let up. Too weak to stand, a broken gasp left his lips, breath rattling in his chest as the mage crouched beside him, her staff gripped in one hand as the other reached out, brushing the back of her knuckle against his cheek.

She clucked her tongue, shaking her head. “You were too weak for our magic,” she purred, her sonorous voice disapproving. “I can sense the hole it left in you. You still yearn for the power, even though it would break you.” She inhaled deeply, then smiled, revealing sharp little canines. “I can smell the rot it left behind.” She tilted her head, maroon eyes roaming over his face. Aerin felt a trickle of blood run down his temple.

Aerin’s hair stood on end as power thrummed through the air. He scented it again, the stench of ozone. Her magic.

“Pity,” the enchanter hummed. “A few more days and it would have taken control.” Her eyes flashed with sadistic glee and her hands began to glow green as her power swelled, ready to strike. “You should have let it.”

The light in her hands flared, blindingly bright, but before she could bestow its horror upon him, another blast illuminated the room, hurling the mage away. She hurtled through the air, then slammed into a statue, pieces of quartz shattering on impact.

Aerin shoved himself to his forearms, twisting to see who had come to his aid.

“If you want to fight someone with magic,” Nia snapped as she crossed the room with long, vengeful strides, arms glowing with the Light, “then you will fight me.”

Osaron’s mage lifted herself to her feet, black blood dribbling down her chin. She snarled. “Priestesses don’t fight.” 

Nia shook her head, arcs of Light manifesting from her fingertips. “I’m not a priestess. Not anymore.”

And then she charged.

Explosions of Light and Shadow shook the crypt as Nia battled the mage, meeting every lance of dark power with one of her own. Nia did not move with the grace of a thief or the brutality of a soldier, born to fight. Rather, she moved like magic itself, as if she and the Light she wielded were one and the same, guided by the hand of a god. A real Saint of Light.

Aerin’s fingers curled around the hilt of his fallen sword as he shoved himself to his feet, wavering slightly, but standing strong. He started toward Nia. Help―he had to help.

But the moment Aerin got near, Nia threw up a hand behind her, a shimmering shield of Light separating her and the Ash mage from the rest of the crypt. “Don’t,” Nia commanded as she struck with a whip of Light. “I’ve got this. Help the others.”

Aerin opened his mouth to argue but forced himself to listen. He trusted Nia. Trusted her to make her own decisions and trusted in her abilities. He knew Nia could handle herself, but still, Aerin prayed for her survival. For all of theirs.

Aerin forced himself to turn away, to dive back into the fray, when his gaze landed on the other side of the room, where Emperor Osaron had finally begun to descend the stairs into the tomb, and drew his sword.

Aerin swallowed his fear and tightened his grip around his sword as those golden and onyx eyes locked with his. Left with no magic, his strength waning, Aerin knew this encounter could only end in death. But he would make it count. He would give his people time, to fight and to escape. He would give Nia time, to defeat the enchanter and to free the knights of the compulsion spell. Perhaps she could finish what he had started. At the very least, Aerin knew that she would keep the others safe until someone else could.

He could not win, but he would fight.

For Morella. His kingdom. His home.

For all of it. 

Aerin lifted his sword and met Osaron halfway.

* * *

“Cover us from above,” was Iliana’s only order as she and Tyril rolled off the side of Mor’s flank and landed on the ground, the Old God barely swooping low enough for them to dismount before he took to the skies once more, razing Ash warriors to dust.

Almost immediately, several soldiers rushed to engage them, but Iliana and Tyril dealt with them just as they had dealt with the rest―brutally and efficiently. Within moments, the Ash soldiers were dead on the ground, their black armor pierced by fire and magic.

Killers. They were killers, now.

But Iliana could not stop to think about that now, could not think of how much blood stained her face and hands, or else she would crumble. When the fighting was done, Iliana turned to face the portal, any hair that was not matted by blood or tucked back into her braid flying in a phantom wind.

The power this breach gave off… The sheer size of it… Yes. Tyril was right. Closing it would demand everything from her. 

“What do you need me to do?” Tyril questioned, studying the rift and then her, his countenance bathed in the portal’s red light. 

Iliana glanced over her shoulder where the fighting was thickest, although their presence had drawn the attention of some incoming troops. Iliana sheathed her sword and shook her head, drawing up her magic. “Just keep them away from me.”

Tyril nodded wordlessly, spelling flames across his twin blades as he put his back to her, facing the oncoming soldiers. Iliana took a deep breath before casting a protective dome of hard wind around herself, muting the sound and shielding herself from projectiles. Then, she lifted her hands, closed her eyes, and directed all of her magic into closing that rift.

Iliana felt rather than saw the forks of lightning that speared from her fingertips, latching onto the edges of the portal. Distantly, she wondered if lightning was the purest manifestation of magic. It was the only form she did not have to put any thought into. With the Light and with the elements, she’d always had to clearly focus on its creation, imagine the way it would feel to wield it. But with the lightning, all she ever needed was intention. The magic did the rest. It was similar to the way the Blade of Light had resurrected Nia on Iliana’s will.

What had Borte said?  _ Don’t do what you can convince the magic to do for you. _ Borte had spoken as if magic had its own will. Thinking of everything she had learned, Iliana supposed it did. The Watcher had even said as much. 

Nevertheless, Iliana poured all of her will, all of her intention into closing the portal and repairing the Veil. It was like an invisible tapestry that wove throughout the worlds, connecting them, but also separating them. Through her magic, Iliana could feel the tattered edges of the Veil. They reached toward each other, as if the threads themselves wanted to reconnect.

Iliana focused on those threads, tightening her hold around them and pulling with all of her might, dragging them together the way one might attempt to close a curtain. But the Veil did not budge. When Iliana opened her eyes, she saw that the rift was still the same size, Ash soldiers still flooding through. Behind her, Tyril still battled on, lashing out with fire and pulses of magical energy. All around him, enemies swarmed.

Iliana swallowed hard, clamping down on the urge to aid him or to at least call Mor to his side. If she had to, she would. But for now, she needed to focus on the rift. If she didn’t get that portal closed, all of his efforts would be for nothing. 

Iliana closed her eyes and tried again, focusing on the torn Veil. She poured her magic into it, trying to reconnect the severed threads with her own magic but every time she tried, the breach shredded them apart, like cobwebs in the wind. She could sense the blood magic that sustained the rift, could sense the lifeblood that had been drained for its creation, and shuddered, repulsed by its presence. 

The portal itself carried echoes of cruelty and malice. Iliana was not sure if that was an impression of the Shadow Realm, leaking its essence into the Realm of Light, or if it was an echo of the misdeeds that had been enacted against humanity in its creation. Blood magic, she knew from Borte’s brief explanation of the topic, was not inherently evil, but the portal carried with it a deliberate feeling of  _ wrongness.  _ Interacting with it made Iliana’s head throb and her bones quiver, as if its existence threatened every fiber of her being. 

It needed to be destroyed.

Behind her, Tyril cried out in pain, a sharp sound that shattered Iliana’s concentration. She let her magic go, abandoning her hold on the rift and turned to see Tyril shove an Ash soldier away, one of his swords gutting the man before he yanked the blade of an axe out of the juncture of his shoulder, his armor split and dented from the blow.

“Tyril!”

Iliana dropped her shield of wind and thrusted out her palm, a shock wave throwing the soldiers back as Tyril hurriedly mended the wound in his shoulder with the Light. Battlefield healing was hasty and no substitute for the delicate work of a real healer, Iliana knew that from experience. A twinge of pain crossed Tyril’s features as he rotated his repaired shoulder but he scowled at Iliana. “Don’t focus on me!” he ordered, lifting his blades once more. “Close the rift!”

Iliana hesitated, her heart clenching painfully in her chest as Tyril engaged another soldier. It was torture to see him face so many enemies alone, to know his strength was waning. But Iliana forced herself to face the breach once more, even as her soul felt as if it were being ripped to shreds. She had to close the rift. Not only for Tyril, but for everyone on the battlefield. For everyone in Whitetower. 

Iliana raised her shield once more and with a determined cry, poured her magic―lightning, fire, the Light―everything she had―into the portal, but still, the breach did not give. It shrunk ever so slightly, but rather than disappear, the rift simply seemed to swallow up her magic. Iliana wondered if those bastards on the other side of it felt the brunt of her attack. She hoped they did. 

Iliana did not know how long she poured her magic into the rift before she eased up her assault, gasping, her legs shaky from exertion, and vision doubling with fatigue. For how much longer, she wondered, could she keep this up? All of her efforts appeared to be for naught. The magic she summoned did so little to the breach, no matter what kind.

_ I needed the chance to study you,  _ Borte had said the night Iliana ventured into the Cave alone.  _ To see what kind of hero we would be following into battle. _

Some hero she was, Iliana thought bitterly, if she had brought them all here to die. 

There had to be something she could do, some secret reservoir she could call upon to sunder the rift. It couldn’t end here. She refused to accept that.

_ You’re the Realm-Walker, Iliana Nightbloom. A living conduit. Only you have the capacity to wield the purest of magic and to cross into other realms at will. _

Iliana stiffened.  _ Capacity. _

Wielding magic was all about taking it in from one’s surroundings and molding it into something else by will, with a price, of course. In layman’s terms, it was simply redirecting and reshaping.

Iliana reached out with her magic, sending invisible feelers to scope out the edges of the breach. Instantly, she recoiled, echoes of misery and pain peeling through her mind.  _ Awful,  _ Iliana lamented with a shudder.  _ So awful. _

Iliana examined the rift once more, acquainting herself with the blood magic that held the maelstrom together. Iliana’s insides twisted as the oily dregs of agony and despair began to pound through her veins like liquid poison. The thought of what she was about to do made her gut wrench.

But she had no choice.

She was the hero so many people had followed into battle, and for them, she would do this. She would give them the opportunity to end this battle, to win some peace, no matter how temporary. 

For the Avian Kingdom. For Morella. For all of it.

Iliana sought out the blood magic that sustained the breach, a thousand capacities springing up inside her, and began to  _ pull. _

* * *

“Will you kneel?” Osaron mused as Aerin strode toward him, “Or will you beg?”

Aerin stopped before the Emperor, the tip of his blade grazing the ground. Staring at that beautiful, unnatural face, Aerin was terrified. Still, Aerin did not falter. He looked into those gold and onyx eyes and said, “Neither. I will defeat you.”

Osaron laughed, the sound impossibly mesmerizing, like a lover’s quiet whisper in the dark. The Emperor shook his head. “You will die.”

Aerin shook his head. “If you wanted me dead, you would have killed me already,” he stated, the gears of his mind churning as he dredged up the silent observations he had made ever since Osaron and his entourage arrived in the crypts. “You would have killed all of us already. Or compelled us to submit and obey. But you haven’t yet. Why?”

Osaron’s smile widened. “You  _ are _ a clever little prince. I do so admire that. The strength of the mind is unparalleled to that of the body. Even that of magical craft.”

Aerin’s eyes narrowed. Typically, talking was what he was good at. Using words to get himself out of trouble, to diffuse an argument, to deceive others, and to coax secrets from tight lips. But now, he just wanted to fight, not because he had any faith in winning, but because of the two things―talking and battling―Aerin only knew what one of those paths would end in. But any time he held Osaron’s time was valuable time, time in which the Emperor’s attention was on him and not the others.

“Why?” Aerin asked again. “Why not strike us all down the moment you had the chance? Why did you set off that explosion? You killed your own men. They would have won on their own.”

“A small sacrifice for the chaos it sowed,” Osaron replied smoothly, his voice nonchalant but not weak, as if they were discussing chess and not war. “The results of that action will be felt not only by those in the palace, but all of your capital. When your people look upon the palace, they see a place of power in ruins, a rule destabilized. It would take quite an impressive ruler to bring a kingdom ravaged by war out of the ashes.”

“A shame that will never happen,” Aerin remarked bitterly, “considering you seek to conquer it.”

Osaron lifted a brow. “Is that what you believe?”

“I imagine that you are not called the Great Conquerors for nothing,” Aerin bit out dryly.

A soft laugh. Osaron shook his head. “ _ Ataash en kost. Kost en ataash.  _ Strength in Power. Power in Strength,” he translated elegantly, and for a moment, Aerin wondered how the Emperor had come to learn the Morellian common tongue, how he spoke it so flawlessly. Even his mage’s lilting speech was halted. 

“I do not wish to conquer this realm,” Osaron continued. “I intend to strengthen it. Cull the weak. Salvage what can be saved. And in doing so, I will bring magic back into this realm.”

“Corrupted magic, you mean,” Aerin supplied disdainfully, thinking of the Shadow.

But Osaron shook his head again. “ _ Pure _ magic. The weak cling to magic, covet it, and abuse it in their efforts to wrangle what they could not control. Because of that, the magic of this realm has fled. Untempered magic demands equals. Beings to coexist with. Too hungry and the magic will flee. Too weak and the realm will be overrun.” 

The Emperor circled Aerin, dragging his obsidian blade through puddles of blood as he did. “This world will know temperance. Proper respect of magic. I will remake the world, young prince, and magic will run free. The first step in that,” he purred, “will be eliminating the weak.”

“Eliminating the weak?” Aerin echoed, nose wrinkling in horror. “And who gets to decide that? You?”

Osaron’s eyes twinkled. “In a way,” he replied. “Magic itself is a prime indicator. But,” he added, dipping his chin toward Aerin. “As I said, I do so value other forms of strength.”

He gestured toward the mage, who went toe-to-toe with Nia, their magic clashing together with a ferocity Aerin had never seen before before continuing, “There is, of course, magical affinity.” He waved a hand toward his orc warrior, who was battling Imtura and three of her crew members with ease. “Strength of the body.” He looked at Aerin, tilting his head. “And strength of the mind. Cull the weak and you have an entire order. Warriors, mages, and rulers.”

“So everyone that is not useful will die?” Aerin questioned, valiantly trying to keep the horror from his voice. 

“A small price to pay for the return of magic, no?” Osaron replied insouciantly as he prowled in a slow circle. “Imagine if magic ran free in the world. If you could not only shape the elements with it, but reality itself. With a mere thought, rivers could be reshaped and instead of water, they could run with gold. Imagination would define reality. There would be no sickness, no poverty, no hunger. Death itself could be conquered.”

Aerin blinked, confused. “Death… how?”

“In time, the relationship between magic and its wielders would shift,” Osaron explained, his tone almost… dream-like. “Instead of having to give up life in exchange for magic, the two would be intertwined. And as magic is immortal, it cannot be created nor destroyed…”

“People would be immortal as well,” Aerin concluded slowly, his brows drawing together. “But only those who have an affinity for magic.”

“Yes,” Osaron confirmed. “But in time, that could be everyone.”

“Is that what your homeland is like?” Aerin questioned.

Osaron paused, regarding Aerin thoughtfully for a few moments before he looked away, those unnatural eyes roaming across the crypt, lingering on the moon-white visages of the memorial statues. His expression was almost… wistful as he replied, “Yes.”

Aerin frowned. Did that mean that the Ash mages were immortal? Or was the Emperor talking about… somewhere else? He shook his head. “That still does not explain why you have not killed us all.”   


“Mm,” the Emperor hummed. “To put it simply, doing so would have been a waste. As you know, this is only the first wave. It is intended to weed out the weak and identify the strong. To see what I can salvage. It seems that I did not have to search very far.” 

“It is obvious that there is so much… potential in this room alone,” Osaron continued, waving his hand toward the fighting that prevailed around them. “Skilled warriors. A powerful Light-Bringer. Even a few sharp-minded rulers,” he added, giving Aerin an assessing glance. “The realm is vast. And between yours and mine, I cannot be everywhere at once.”

Aerin’s brows rose in disbelief. “You would let us remain in power?”

“If you remain agreeable. Useful,” Osaron replied, twirling his blade in his hand. “You could witness the rebirth of this world at the helm of your precious kingdom.”

“If I let you curb the population to your liking,” Aerin said dryly. 

“As I said, it is a small price to pay.” The Emperor smiled slightly. “ _ One _ of the prices.”

Aerin almost scoffed. Of course there was something else to this…  _ generous _ proposition. Aerin tried to keep the bite out of his voice as he questioned, “What else do you want?”

Osaron’s eyes glittered although Aerin could not figure out precisely why as the Emperor replied, “The girl. The Realm-Walker.”

_ Iliana.  _ Something vicious inside Aerin reared its ugly head, his disgust and repulsion growing ever stronger. Aerin’s grip around his sword tightened even as he forced himself to ask, “What for?”

“I have not yet decided,” the Emperor admitted candidly. “I suppose it will depend on how willingly she agrees to our terms. How thoroughly you can persuade her.”

Aerin felt sick at the very idea of what the Emperor implied, what he requested. Deliver Iliana to the Empire of Ash, either for her execution or―Aerin’s stomach twisted. He could not even think of it. He did not know which scenario would be worse. Both were equally horrific―his worst nightmares.

Aerin pressed his lips together, glancing toward the melee that still surged around them. His father, Ristridin, Imtura and her crew, Mal, Anneith and her spies… they all still fought. But for how much longer would they do so? How long before one of them―all of them―fell?

Aerin ground his teeth and turned back to Osaron. “If I agree to your terms,” he said slowly as he stepped forward. “If I let you do what you say you will do to this realm, will you end the fighting? Here and in Cragheart?” 

Osaron lifted a single golden brow. “Not all the lives you save today at Cragheart will be spared in the culling.”

Aerin shook his head. “I know. But this extra time… it is worth it. Will they know what is coming?”

Osaron shook his head. “It does not have to be so. Your people need not even know that you were aware of my intentions.”

Aerin nodded taking another step closer. “And my father will remain in power?”

“Your father?” Osaron questioned, glancing toward the King, who miraculously, still fought. “Yes. If that is who you wish to rule.”

“You will deliver on your promises?” Aerin clarified. Another step. “You will bring magic back into our realm?”

“I will uphold my promises,” Osaron affirmed, his eyes glittering. “So long as you uphold yours.”

Aerin swallowed hard and nodded as he slowly, painstakingly, lowered himself to one knee at the Emperor’s feet, laying his sword across the top of his thigh. “Very well.”

Osaron’s brows lifted, satisfaction lining every curve of his beautiful, awful face. “So you agree to our terms? You pledge fealty?

Aerin glanced toward the corner of the crypt where Nia still fought. He could not tell who was winning, but prayed that the time he had given her was enough. It had to be.

_ Let it be enough,  _ Aerin pleaded, although he did not know who he was praying to.  _ Please, let it all be enough.  _

Aerin met the Emperor’s eyes. Tightened his grip around his sword. “No.”

In a flash, Aerin rose and slashed his sword clean through the Emperor’s neck.

* * *

Calling upon magic had never been so agonizing. 

Usually, channeling magic made Iliana feel stronger and more powerful. But now, it hurt.

Iliana felt as if she was consuming poison, liquid wraithberry, and forcing it to surge through her veins. Her stomach twisted, bile creeping up her throat, a fever rose like the tide, cold sweat streaming down her back, and her heart pounded so fast and so hard, she thought it might burst.

Still, she did not stop drawing the magic in, and gradually, little by little, the breach diminished and the Veil began to close.

Her head pulsed and Iliana’s vision tilted, then tunneled, her mind sliding toward darkness, but she forced herself to stay upright, to swallow back the bile in her throat.

Iliana was unsure whether this was the result of the blood magic or simply the result of drawing in too much magic and giving it nowhere else to go. It was too much. She had to expel it, had to convert it into something else. 

The shield of hard wind around her erupted into swirling flames as Iliana tried to release some of the magic that was boiling within her, but even this expulsion brought little relief. What she released was barely a fraction of all that she took in. If she wasn’t careful, the magic would overflow.

_ Mor! _ Iliana thought frantically as the magic continued to build and build and build, far faster than the breach shrank.  _ Get Tyril out of here! _

Iliana did not turn away as she drained the portal of the magic that powered it, but she let the nearby roar that rattled the earth serve as a confirmation that the great beast had heard her plea.

Pain lanced jaggedly through Iliana’s chest and a half-broken sob burst out of her lips. It hurt so badly. Again, the edges of her vision flared red then black as unconsciousness―or possibly even death―beckoned.

Iliana staved off her surrender, focusing on absorbing more of the magic, forcing her body to take the onslaught. The portal shrank by a margin. In return, Iliana burned brighter, sweat rolling down her temples from the fever and the heat.

“Wha―No!” Tyril cried out behind her, his voice a hoarse scream. His words were punctuated by loud booms, the flap of great crimson and black wings. “Iliana, no!  _ No!” _

Iliana did not turn as Mor carried Tyril away, presumably to somewhere safe, or perhaps to continue laying fire to the battlefield.  _ Good. _

She no longer needed Tyril to guard her back. Any soldiers that sought to attack her would be melted for simply trying to get close. And as the portal continued to shrink, little by little until it had gone from the size of a pirate ship to being too small for a single man to step through, Iliana knew her work was almost done. Almost.

The flames around Iliana burned brighter, the red hues interspersed with golds and vibrant blues. Iliana squeezed her eyes shut against the blinding light.

She kept taking and taking and taking.

Iliana knew the portal had closed, the Veil naturally mending itself, when the red light behind her eyelids faded and no more new magic surged through her veins. She was filled to the brim, nearly bursting with so much untapped power.

Every nerve in her body screamed.

She needed to let it go. 

Iliana turned away from the spot where the breach had once been, and slowly walked toward the region of Cragheart where the Empire’s host was fullest, every step laced through with power and pain. Any soldier that approached went up in flames.

Iliana strode behind enemy lines and immersed herself in the center of the Empire’s second army, which was now trapped, unable to retreat through the portal that she had closed. When she reached the heart of the host, Iliana simply sat down on the scorched earth, her muscles aching in relief. She looked up at the sky, which beneath the layer of smoke from all of the fires, had lightened to a watercolor palette of soft pinks and yellows.

The dawn had come.

Iliana searched the skies until she spotted a great beast in the clouds, until she saw that Mor and Tyril were a safe distance away. 

Only then, did she let her grip on the magic loosen. 

Iliana let the magic go, and erupted.

* * *

Aerin watched as his blade― _ Honor My Sword, Truth My Shield _ ―sliced through Osaron’s neck. Watched as his blade emerged, sparkling silver and bloodless. Watched as Osaron simply  _ parted _ around Aerin’s blade and reformed a few feet to the left. Watched as the Emperor’s depthless eyes looked down at him, half-lidded and gloriously bored, his head still perfectly intact on his shoulders.

Osaron sighed in disappointment. “Even the most clever of men can be so predictable.”

Despite himself, despite every instinct that screamed at him to run, Aerin gaped. “How…?”

Osaron did not deign to answer. Instead, he waved his hand and a spear of darkness shot toward Aerin, who threw himself out of the way, narrowly dodging the lance of dark magic. 

“You set your priestess after the wrong enemy,” Osaron said coldly, shaking his head. “No matter. I would have defeated her, too.”

Aerin scowled, regained his footing, then slashed again.

But Osaron expected it. The Emperor dissolved, then reappeared behind Aerin, his blade cutting into the back of Aerin’s forearm, just above where his vambrace had ended. 

“Tell me, Prince Aerin,” Osaron mused conversationally as Aerin whirled. “At what point, when did you make your decision? At what point did the price for the paradise I offered you become too steep? When did your ‘yes’ become a ‘no?’ Was it before or after I asked for the girl?”

“It never would have been a ‘yes,’” Aerin snarled, stabbing and missing again. “The moment you stepped foot in my kingdom, my mind was made up. I  _ will _ kill you.”

Osaron shook his head. “You will not.”

He did not say it as a threat or even as a taunt. Both of them knew what that statement was―a fact.

Nevertheless, Aerin continued to attack, lunging and swinging every place Osaron phased in and out of.

It was not until Aerin got unexpectedly close, dancing just within Osaron’s guard, that the Emperor attacked. His hand shot out, lightning fast, fingers curling around Aerin’s throat and lifting him, his grip so tight Aerin nearly released his sword in pain and shock. His free hand clawed at the Emperor’s, flesh tearing beneath his nails. Flesh tearing because, despite all of his phasing, Osaron’s body was corporeal.

At times.

Osaron tightened his fingers and Aerin let out a choked gasp, his vision blurring as he fought to get down air through his crushed windpipe.

“You asked me what I am,” Osaron said, irritation and arrogance creeping into his voice as his patience began to wear thin. His unnatural eyes sparkled. “You have never seen the likes of me before.”

“Doesn’t… matter,” Aerin rasped, angling his blade. “You… will still… die.”

Osaron rolled his eyes but before he could reply, Aerin jerked his other arm, slicing his blade across the underside of the Emperor’s arm, black blood leaking onto the floor and the front of Aerin’s armor. Osaron hissed, the wound sealing itself almost instantly as he tossed Aerin to the ground and dissipated, reappearing a few paces away, face twisted in annoyance. 

“I tire of your insolence, child,” Osaron growled, sharpened tendrils of Shadow plunging toward Aerin, who rolled out of the way.

“Then just die,” Aerin snapped, shoving himself up to his feet before charging once again.

Osaron abandoned his method of evasion, meeting Aerin’s iron blade with his own obsidian one. His strikes were brutal, each one forcing Aerin to step back, to give up more ground. No matter how Aerin dodged around the Emperor and forced him to spin around, he always found himself in a less than favorable position, and Aerin needed every advantage he could get. The Emperor was simply too strong, too fast. Aerin could not keep this up for long, could not win. He only needed to stall.

_ Please,  _ he thought desperately as he bore the force of Osaron’s wicked blows, his blade nearly thrown from his grasp.  _ I am not enough. Save us. I am not enough. _

“Enough,” Osaron declared at last, holding up his other hand, fingers twitching. “Save yourself the trouble.”

Aerin choked on a yelp as his wrist shattered. He sword clattered to the ground, the metallic twang of the blade against stone cutting through the din of the surrounding fight, nearly disguising his cry for pain. “No!”

Aerin twisted, reaching for his sword with his other hand―he would fight with his non-dominant hand if he had to―but before his fingers could curl around the hilt, an invisible force gripped him, pinning him to the ground. No matter how Aerin struggled, his wrist throbbing in torment, the magical restraint did not release him.

Osaron towered over him, head tilted sympathetically as he clucked his tongue. “It did not have to be this way, Aerin Valleros,” he murmured, lifting his sword and holding it over Aerin’s chest, poised to fall. “But if you did not kneel now, you never will. And I will not waste my time with your little rebellions. _ Dareth hedan.  _ Farewell. May fate guide you.”

Aerin drew in a sharp breath as Osaron lifted his blade by a fraction, then stabbed downward, the wicked edge plummeting toward Aerin’s chest when―

Osaron gasped, his hands releasing his sword so that it clattered harmlessly against Aerin’s breastplate, unable to slice through the armor without the proper force. Aerin stared in awe as the edge of another sword jutted out from the center of the Emperor’s stomach. The blade jerked up, cleaving Osaron all the way up to the center of his chest, where the glittering weapon remained

Osaron stumbled back, his eyes wide with more shock than pain. He staggered to the side and collapsed to the ground, revealing the man who had dealt the lethal blow.

In his surprise, Osaron’s magic had eased up and Aerin shoved himself to his elbows. “Father.”

King Arlan’s vengeful expression faded as his warm gaze shifted to his son. “Aerin.”

Arlan reached forward, hand outstretched to help Aerin up and pull him into his arms, but before their fingers could touch, a jagged lance of black magic punched through Arlan’s shoulder.

_ “NO!”  _ Aerin screamed, his voice shredding itself on the word.

More lances speared his father’s stomach, his knee, and finally, his chest. Arlan collapsed forward but Aerin lunged forward to catch him, knees tearing on the sandstone floor, his wrist howling in pain as the King’s weight bore down on him.

“No,” Aerin rasped as he turned his father over in his lap. There was blood, too much blood, coming from too many places. He pressed his good hand over the gaping hole in Arlan’s chest, but it was not enough to even staunch the flow of blood. “No, no, no, no. Why would you do that? Why did you do that?”

His father did not reply. He released a wet cough, crimson flecks staining his lips. “My boy,” he only breathed.

“No!” Aerin cried desperately, lifting his head. “Nia!” he yelled, even though he knew the priestess could not come.

“Aerin,” his father rasped. When Aerin still did not look, he said, “Aerin. Look at me.”

Aerin looked then, at the man who was his father, tears blurring his gaze.

“My boy,” Arlan repeated again, his hand falling atop Aerin’s on his chest. Aerin sobbed then, because it was love―real love―love and pride and sorrow that shone on his father’s face as he said, “Aerin.”

“No,” Aerin whispered, although there was no use. “Please, no.”

“It is done,” his father said quietly.

“It can’t be,” Aerin insisted. “I just… I just came back.”

“I am sorry,” his father breathed. “I am sorry for all of it, Aerin.”

“No. This isn’t fair,” Aerin rasped, his voice breaking. Shattering. “I didn’t… I should have come sooner. We could have prevented this. Prepared better. We could have had more time.”

“You’re here now,” Arlan breathed, his voice growing ever weaker as he echoed their earlier conversation, a conversation Aerin had no idea would be one of their last. 

Aerin choked on a sob. “No.”

“I am sorry,” his father murmured again, his eyes growing dim.

“I love you,” Aerin said, because there was nothing else he could say, no other words that were powerful enough to make his father stay. He said it again. Meant it. “I love you.”

His father’s chest hitched, eyes brightening for a fraction of a second as his lips quivered, seeking out the words. His chest fell and a soft puff of air left Arlan’s mouth. “Aerin.”

And then he was gone.

Aerin stared down at Arlan’s face―the face of the Gentle King, the face of his father. Gone now, with the rest of them. “In the afterlife,” Aerin said softly, “if one exists… I hope you find him.”

Aerin closed his eyes and bowed his head, tears dripping onto the front of his father’s bloodstained tunic. “I am sorry.”

Aerin heard the scrape of metal sabatons across stone, heard a wet squelch and then a sharp clang as Osaron pulled Arlan’s blade from his back. The wound, Aerin knew, would heal itself in mere seconds.

“Do it,” Aerin said lowly, not lifting his gaze from his father’s still face, his voice a guttural rasp. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Get on with it.”

There was a long pause, then, “No.”

Aerin whipped his head up, glaring at the Emperor with more fire than he had ever mustered. “Is this some sort of bastardized trick?” he snarled. “The Empire’s show of cruelty? Do it.”

“No,” Osaron repeated, his voice devoid of any emotion, irritation or otherwise. It was flat and full of all the reason Aerin could not gather for himself. “Your people have lost their ruler today. They need your presence. They will descend even further into chaos without your guidance. I have no desire to waste my time saving them from themselves.”

“So I am alive for your convenience,” Aerin said bitterly, his fingers curling into the front of his father’s tunic. What cruel world had he fallen into? Even his own enemy would not take his life.

“Yes,” Osaron repeated simply. “As I said, this was only the first wave. In due time, I will return to take the realm. You may rule in the meantime. By the laws of your land, you are now king. Isn’t that what all princes long for?”

Aerin bared his teeth at him, a cornered animal. “No.”

He was no longer surprised to find that the words were true.

Osaron huffed, clearly immune to Aerin’s grieving. “You rule this kingdom now. As king, as regent, whatever you so please. Just keep things in order until I return. You may even reassemble your army and gather what allies you can, if it will make you feel better. I even invite you to do so. It will make my return so much more fascinating.” He tilted his head, lips curling in a coy smile. “Perhaps your might will impress me. I do enjoy being proven wrong about the strength of a kingdom, although admittedly, that has not happened in millenia. I certainly invite you to try.”

Aerin scowled, his mind drifting toward his sword as he thought about how nice it would be to plunge it into the Emperor’s chest, all the way to the hilt. Such a thing might get him killed. And even if it didn’t, it would be incredibly satisfying.

But before Aerin could reach for his sword or meet Osaron’s provoking words with something foul of his own, the entire palace shook, dust and small pebbles raining down from the ceiling. For a moment, Aerin thought that another part of the palace had been blown to smithereens, but one look at the Emperor’s raised brows and paling face told him otherwise. This was not the Empire’s doing. It was not a part of their plan.

The voids of the Emperor’s eyes bloomed, swallowing up the burnished gold, face slackening in surprise. Barely a moment had passed before Osaron’s eyes had returned to normal―or at least what was normal for him―and he looked down at Aerin, face limned with disgust and… fear.

“The battle at Cragheart has ended,” Osaron murmured.

Aerin’s chest tightened wearily.  _ Iliana. _

He stepped away, turning toward his orc warrior. “Marurak―”

Dead. The Ash orc warrior laid dead on the ground, black blood pooling around his body, right at Imtura’s feet. Her face was bloodied, axes dripping with inky ichor, as if she had just gone in for the kill. She probably had, while everyone else was distracted.

Osaron turned to his mage, whose fight with Nia had momentarily ceased as both women gazed around the crypt in confusion at the sudden tremor, their chests heaving with exertion, clothes torn and bloody. 

“Narissa,” he commanded. “She will be coming.” Then, he turned his attention upon Aerin once more. “I have seen everything I need to know. Rally your forces while you can, young king. Or perhaps you should simply enjoy what time you have left. Your people have won Cragheart, but next time we meet, it will not be so kind.”

Across the crypt, the mage―Narissa―nodded curtly in understanding. Then, before anyone could react, she twisted at the waist, lashing out so quickly, her body was just a dark blur as a razor sharp arc of Shadow whipped through the air, slicing deep into Nia’s chest.

_ “NIA!” _

Aerin’s mouth fell open in horror as Nia stumbled back, her eyes going wide with shock, and she caught herself against the quartz statue of the Priestess of Light, her delicate hand fluttering over the gaping wound in her chest. In the same instant that she fell, Narissa sprinted away, dashing toward Osaron. The Emperor held out an outstretched hand, darkness already starting to billow around him. The moment Narissa’s arm was in his, the darkness enveloped them both, and in an instant, they were gone.

There was a loud clatter of steel as the compelled knights immediately dropped their swords and collapsed to the ground unconscious, like puppets cut from their string, Narissa’s spell evidently broken. But Aerin’s attention was not on them.

Mal knelt beside Nia, who was breathing in fits and starts, blood pooling in the deep curves of her collarbone, the hollow of her neck. Mal pulled her into his lap, grabbing her hand. His voice was as urgent and soft as Aerin had ever heard it. 

“Nia,” he rasped, fingers trembling against hers as he pressed her palm to her chest, right over the gaping wound. “Nia, you need to heal yourself.”

She opened and closed her mouth wordlessly, small, animal sounds leaving her bloodied lips. She reached up her other hand, fingers outstretched as if to reach for Mal’s face, but they fell short, instead falling to knit themselves in the collar of his tunic.

Mal shook his head vigorously. “Nia,” he urged her, fingers tightening around her wrist.  _ “Please.  _ I need you to―” His voice broke, brows drawing together. “I need you to. You have to heal yourself, understand. Please―”

Nia’s hand began to glow silver, weak at first, then stronger. Gradually, the wound in her chest began to mend itself back together, the flow of blood halted. Before long, only a jagged scar remained, the result of a hasty but necessary healing. The moment the wound was healed and she was stable, Nia’s Light dissipated and her hand fell to the side, her body slumping into unconsciousness. Unconsciousness, and nothing more.

Aerin’s shoulders slumped in relief and he heard Mal croak his blessings. Aerin was glad Nia was alright―relatively, that is. But his joy was muted, because while Nia was still alive and mostly well, others were not.

Aerin looked down at his father, already cold in his arms. His heart ached impossibly, the hurt so deep and raw, Aerin wondered if he could ever recover. He gazed around the room, noting all of the unconscious bodies and all of the ones that would never recover, would never rise again. The scene in this crypt alone was gruesome. He could not even imagine what it was like in Cragheart.

_ Iliana,  _ he thought weakly. But even the idea of her was a dim afterthought amidst the sorrow.

Today, they had won. Even if it did not feel like a victory. Many soldiers and knights had died, but in the end, more would be returned to their homes―perhaps worse than when they left―than mourned. 

Aerin bowed over his father, silent sobs shaking his body in wordless, depthless grief. He felt Ristridin kneel beside him, felt the Captain lay his hand atop his shoulder.

Today was a victory, even if it did not feel like it. 

Tonight, Morella would celebrate. Would remember what it is like to be alive and free.

Tomorrow, they would bury the dead.


	36. Extinguished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

Iliana awoke with ashes in her mouth.

She coughed, her fingers instinctively flexing against the ground she laid atop. Eyes still closed, she relied on touch alone to anchor her. The material beneath her had a grainy texture, but it was fine, more so than sand, and it clung to the pads of her fingertips, sticking beneath her nails and in her cuticles. Ash. 

There was an odor in the air. Smoke. It reeked of burnt hair, blackened wood, and death. Iliana inhaled deeply, her lungs burning as if she had just inhaled cinders, and coughed again. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

She did not know how long she had been unconscious. The sky above had lightened from the pinks and yellows of dawn to the pale blue of early morning. Tendrils of smoke curled toward the sky, bleeding into the white clouds that lazily floated by. She blinked once, twice, banishing the burning sensation that made tears leak from the corners of her eyes. Then, slowly, achingly, Iliana pushed herself up to one elbow.

She laid at the heart of a wide circle of ash, the epicenter of destruction. Bits of charred bone and melted armor littered the field, all that remained of the second half of the Empire’s host. Iliana’s heart thudded, her blood loud in her ears.

_ I did this. _

In the distance, the fighting still continued, although the battle was already won. The dark soldiers were few and far between, scattered amongst gleaming suits of silver armor and magnificent sets of wings.

Iliana’s gaze slid from the battle back to the waste that stretched around her. Her fingers, bloodied and bruised, sifted through the cool ash as she thought again,  _ I did this. _

She did not know what to make of the noise that fell from her mouth. It was a strangled sort of sob that was filled with equal parts relief, horror, anger, and exhaustion. The words hammered into her, each one a spike driven into her chest.

_ I did this. _

The only thing that prevented her from spiraling was a loud thud from somewhere behind her. The earth shuddered in response, tremors climbing up the length of her arms. Footsteps crunched behind her and Iliana turned, her muscles and tendons straining in response. Her breath hitched. “Tyril.”

Tyril was running towards her, Mor stationed behind her, massive tail thumping against the scorched earth.

Iliana tried to stand, but her limbs would not cooperate. She felt sluggish and weak, and when she called upon the Light to heal any wounds that could have inhibited her, nothing came. Her heart quickened. Her magic, she could not feel it.

Her voice came out high and panicked as she croaked again, “Tyril.”

“You’re okay,” were his first words to her as he fell to her side. Tears began to prick the corners of Iliana’s eyes but Tyril wiped them away with bloodstained fingers before looping his arms beneath her shoulders and knees. “You’re okay,” he repeated, lifting her from the ground. “It’s over.”

“I can’t feel my magic,” Iliana rasped as he carried her toward Mor, panic climbing in her throat. “It’s gone.”

Tyril shook his head, his arms strong and reassuring beneath her. “It’s not gone. You just over-exerted yourself. It will be back.”

Iliana opened her mouth to protest, but instead, she only nodded. There was no way to describe the gaping void she felt at the center of her chest, as if her connection to the world around her―the golden tapestry Nia had described―was severed. Where there was once balance and unity, there was nothing. It was similar to what she had felt in that moonstone chamber in the Cave but so much worse. She hoped to all of the gods, spirits, and Saints of Light that what Tyril said was true, and that she would never experience this feeling again.

But then she reminded herself,  _ This is only the beginning. _

Tyril ferried her to Mor’s side, using his magic to provide her invisible footholds to help her into the saddle before climbing up after her. Iliana was grateful when he sat in front of her, his back a pillar to lean against. She needed to rest, just for a bit. 

The moment they were secure, Mor took to the skies, lifting them high above the battlefield. It was only then, when they were nearly immersed in the clouds, that Iliana could see the full extent of the destruction she had caused. A crater―a near-perfect circle―that was over one hundred paces in diameter. Parts of the earth still smoked.

“I did this,” she whispered.

“I…” Tyril shifted so that just his profile was visible. Iliana could see the way his brows knitted together and his lips pressed into a grim line as he looked once more at the pit of ash, then slid his gaze to hers. His voice was soft. Sympathetic. “Yes. You did.”

Iliana’s breath hitched, but still, she did not let the tears fall. Instead, she closed her eyes tightly and nodded in acceptance. She had already known this, but a small part of her had hoped it was not true.

“It won’t be long now,” Tyril continued, the wind howling around them as they flew in a slow circle around Cragheart. “I suspect our armies will clean up what remains of the Empire’s host within the hour. Then the wagons will be brought in to pick up the dead. Funeral pyres will be constructed throughout the night. Tomorrow morning, the bodies will be burned. Before the smell can set in.”

“The Morellian soldiers, you mean,” Iliana said quietly, opening her eyes to look over the battlefield. She knew the Avian Kingdom had lost fighters as well, although she suspected they would want to take care of their own. “What about the Ash soldiers?”

Tyril stiffened slightly, then sighed. “Under normal circumstances, the enemy would be left to take care of their own. But since they are stranded here with no base, no place to retreat to… There is no one here to mourn them.” Tyril shook his head solemnly. “Their dead will be burned in an unmarked grave, and no one will be there to mourn them. No one but a bunch of prisoners― _ if _ any are taken.”

“Do you think that they knew that when they came here?” Iliana asked, resting the side of her head against Tyril’s shoulder as she gazed down at the soldiers, identifiable even from this height by their oily armor, which seemed to swallow up the watery sunlight. “Do you think they knew they weren’t going to return?”

Tyril’s frown was detectable by the way his jaw tensed. “I think they expected to win.”

Iliana shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

She didn’t know how to explain it, this gut feeling she had that this was a battle the Empire did not truly care about. If it was… well, she suspected that if the Empire had wanted to win, they would have. Hells, she suspected that if they wanted to conquer the entire kingdom, they could have. Easily. But why didn’t they?

Iliana shook her head, dispelling the thoughts. They had more pressing matters to attend to, and having rested for a few moments, Iliana regained enough strength to face them. She straightened, directing her attention to the north.

Iliana reached down, wearily brushing her fingers along Mor’s leathery flank, letting the presence of companions steel her before she exhaled her next order. “To Whitetower.”

* * *

Somehow, it felt as if both an eternity and no time at all had passed before Mor, Iliana, and Tyril touched down on the palace terrace. It was quiet, but the hush that had fallen over the ruined palace was not oppressive and full of menace as it had been before.

Iliana dismounted hastily, her bones jarring with the impact as her feet slammed into the marble floor, water from the broken fountain splashing around the ankles. Tyril was right behind her, following close on her heels as she rushed toward the double doors that led to the throne room. She heaved them open with her shoulder, nearly stumbling over the threshold in her urgency.

When she entered the throne room, Iliana nearly collapsed in relief.

Her friends were gathered at the center of the hall, whole and hale, deep in conversation with a few people Iliana did not recognize. Some were dressed in servants uniforms, others in armor, and even more in the finer silks and heavy fabrics of the nobility. There were even orcs―members of Imtura’s crew―in the mix. What they were discussing, Iliana did not know because the moment she caught them in her gaze, she sprinted toward them.

She wasn’t entirely sure which one of her friends called her name, maybe all of them did, but within moments she was there, careening into her brother with a force that would have knocked him off his feet had Imtura not caught him.

“Oh!” Kade yelped in surprise, although his arms wound tightly around her back. He held her close as Iliana curled over him, hiding her face in his shoulder. It felt so good to be enveloped in a gentle touch, even if her armor made the entire affair a bit uncomfortable. It grounded Iliana, helped her feel more stable in this deadly body of hers. Almost like a person again. 

Behind her, Mal asked, “What the hells happened?”

Tyril hesitated for a moment, then replied, “We won. That’s all that matters. What happened here?”

It was Nia who answered, her voice soft and weary, her exhaustion clear. “Same thing. Narrowly. It… was not easy. Or,” she added, and Iliana swore she could have heard her wince, “pleasant.”

Iliana sagged in relief. The fighting was over, then. For now. Without letting go, she reached behind her brother, grabbing hold of Imtura’s bicep and pulling her into the mix.

“Och,” Imtura grunted, even as she wrapped her arms around both Iliana and Kade. “We’re doing this, then?”

“Yes,” Iliana replied, squeezing her eyes shut as she gave in to the tremendous relief she felt at their presence. “Everyone. Please.”

Iliana sighed contentedly as she felt the edge of Tyril’s jaw against the crown of her head, Mal’s hand on her shoulder, Nia’s hair tickling her cheek, and even Threep’s tail curled against the back of her neck. 

Mal sniffed, then made a noise of disgust. “You smell awful, kit. You too, elf boy.”

“Thanks,” Iliana laughed, a startled, hoarse sound, like a bucket scraping the bottom of a well. She clutched her friends tighter, fighting back the tears that burned behind her eyes.

It felt safe. It felt like home.

But… 

Iliana felt her blood run cold. Someone was missing.

She drew back, mind already going to the worst of possibilities as she asked, “Where’s Aerin?”

* * *

Iliana found him in the crypts, where she had been told everything happened.

_ King Arlan, dead…  _ She could not believe it.

Captain Ristridin was stationed outside, whether that was by his own decision or Aerin’s orders, she did not know. She assumed it was the former. 

“You survived,” the Captain observed, his dark eyes scanning her from head to toe. Iliana had relieved herself of her armor before setting off in search of the crypts although her clothes were still torn, singed, and bloody. She knew she looked like a mess―a corpse on puppet strings. She certainly felt that way.

Iliana huffed, giving a single-shouldered shrug. “Miraculously.”

Ristridin nodded slowly, his gaze flicking between her eyes. His lips drew into a frown, brows knitting together. When he spoke, his voice sounded old, far older than Iliana knew the Captain to be. “Battle is not easy. Whatever you saw today… I am sorry for it.”

Iliana’s brows rose, her lips parting slightly in surprise. It was… not the acknowledgment she was expecting nor was it one she entirely wanted, for with it came a deluge of memories. Iliana shifted, hyper aware of the blood crusted beneath her fingernails. Nevertheless, she appreciated the Captain’s statement. It offered the validation she did not know she sought for the twisted feelings she harbored toward everything that had happened today.

Iliana swallowed past the lump in her throat before bowing her head gratefully. “Thank you, Captain.”

“You are too young,” he murmured dolefully. “You all are.”

Iliana wondered if perhaps even he was as well. Was there truly an age in which such horror, violence, and loss became more bearable?

His armor stained with crimson, Ristridin looked fatigued, worn, and impossibly mournful. The things the others had said… How many of his own men had the Captain fought in these crypts? How many had died? And the King―she could not even imagine the weight of the grief he bore for that loss. Or the regret.

Her gaze strayed to the entrance of the crypt. And Aerin… 

“Go,” Ristridin urged her, stepping aside. “The bodies are gone, but he still remains. Talk to him, before he becomes a ghost in his own halls.”

Iliana’s chest tightened at the thought. She dipped her chin to the Captain, then stepped into the crypts.

As Ristridin had said, the dead had been removed from the tomb―at least the ones that did not already belong there―but the bloodstains still remained. Rubble and broken furniture were scattered about the stairs that lead into the vault. The air was stale and smelled of damp stone with an undercurrent of copper and ozone, which she had come to recognize as the scent of powerful magic. 

The crypt was dark but Iliana needed only the weak firelight that flooded in from the hallway to see. Aerin was not far from the entrance, sitting at the base of a quartz statue, armor discarded in a pile beside him. The mere sight of him, even with his back turned to her, made Iliana’s heart rage against her ribcage, her knees going weak with the sheer relief of presence.

_ He’s alive,  _ she thought, her blood singing its chorus. Her heart beat to the rhythmic cadence,  _ A-live. Alive, alive, alive, alive. _

A shaky breath slipped through her lips as she reached the bottom of the stairs. The last time she saw him had only been hours ago, but it was long enough for Iliana to know that she never wanted to be parted like that again. The last time she saw him… 

The beat of her heart shifted from,  _ A-live, a-live, a-live, _ to  _ love you, love you, love you. _

_ I love you,  _ he had said.

The words, earnest and true, rose to the tip of Iliana’s tongue, pressing against the inside of her mouth, ready to be released.

But then Aerin turned, and the words died in the space between them.

There were no tears on his face. Somehow, that was worse. Blood splattered his neck and the soft planes of his cheeks, which now looked gaunt and hollow in this light. The set of his jaw was strained, as if it took every ounce of strength he had to hold even that part of himself together. The look in his eyes was nothing short of haunted. 

The last time she saw him had only been hours ago, and in that short amount of time, everything had changed. For both of them. 

Iliana dragged her gaze upward. The statue Aerin sat before was his brother’s. In time, she knew his father’s would soon stand beside it. 

_ Talk to him, _ Ristridin had said, but Iliana knew that nothing she could ever say would make any of this better.

“They’re all gone,” was all Aerin said softly, and in those words, Iliana heard those of another being, an Old God’s.  _ I am the only one left. _

Iliana nodded, the pain in her chest so acute, she thought that for certain, her heart was tearing itself into two. “I know.”

Iliana crossed the distance that spanned between them, then sat down, pulling Aerin into her arms. She laid her chin atop his head and murmured again, “I know.”

For a moment, Aerin stiffened and Iliana feared he might push her away, feared that her touch was no longer something he wanted, that  _ she _ was no longer something he wanted. And she found that if that was the case, she could not blame him. She understood well that if she had lost all that he had today, there would be no more room for anyone amidst all of the grief that filled her heart.

But then Aerin returned her embrace with a vehemence and desperation that made Iliana’s chest swell. He held her tightly, and in that gesture, Iliana heard all of the words he was too pained to say.

_ You’re here. You’re alive. You’re alive and well and I am relieved. I could not bear it if you were gone. If I lost you, I would have lost myself, too. _

Aerin pressed close to her, his nose pressing into the pulse point of her neck, his lashes fluttering against her skin. His chest rumbled against hers as he spoke.

“But not you,” he mumbled, his hands curling against her back, fingertips pressing into the notches of her spine. “You’re still here.”

“Of course I am,” she murmured, fighting past the tightness in her throat and the tears that pricked her eyes. Iliana smoothed her hand down the length of his back, feeling the warmth of his skin, of  _ life _ , beneath her palm. She closed her eyes, leaning into him just as much as he leaned into her, both of them strong enough to support the other but not to stand alone. 

“I’m not going to leave you,” Iliana vowed softly, although her voice was full of impassioned conviction. “Not now. Not ever.”

It was not an “I love you,” but it might as well have been.

After a few moments had passed, Iliana drew back, sliding her palm along the side of his cheek as she lifted his face to study him. She kissed his temple, fingers flaking off the blood that had crusted beneath his empty eyes. 

“Come on,” she said softly, slipping her hand into his. “Let’s go.”

Aerin’s brow creased. “Go where?”

But Iliana did not answer. She only stood, fingers tightening around Aerin’s hand until he moved to follow. Iliana led him out of the crypt, Ristridin quietly falling into step behind them.

The halls were speckled with crumbled marble and dust. It was a marvel in itself that the palace still stood. According to one of the advisors Iliana had spoken to before searching for Aerin, the worst of the damage was contained in the upper levels, leaving the lower ones structurally unharmed, if not cosmetically. But in time, they would rebuild. They would rid themselves of the scars and soot stains that marred the palace walls and try to forget the damage that had been done here today. Or perhaps  _ forget  _ wasn’t the right word, but rather, simply  _ live.  _ Live in the wake of tragedy _. _

Aerin’s footsteps faltered when they came to a set of ornate double doors, inlaid with gold filigree that depicted a scene of great stags standing proudly in the wood. His fingers slackened as he asked, “Where are we going?”

Iliana squeezed his hand reassuringly. “They’re waiting.”

She did not need to explain  _ who. _

Aerin was pale, so pale, Iliana feared there was not enough blood circulating to his brain and he might pass out. But then Aerin swallowed hard, his throat bobbing low into the cradle of his collarbone as he withdrew his hand from hers and he stepped forward, pushing open the double doors that led into the throne room, where all of the remaining knights, advisors, generals, and agents awaited. The lifeblood of the palace, the beating heart of a regime. And amongst them, their friends.

They were all bloodied, covered in soot and dust, shadows under their eyes that displayed the grief and exhaustion they all bore. But their downtrodden appearance belied the unmistakable glimmer of hope and hard-won triumph that shone in their eyes.

“Iliana.” Aerin’s voice was a soft, nearly inaudible plea. A request for support, for confirmation, that this was not a dream, that it was  _ real. _

And quietly, the audience assembled before them kneeled. Every single one of them.

“You were there when they needed you most,” Iliana said quietly, her voice wavering with emotion. “This is for you, Aerin. All of it is for you.”

Iliana shifted to kneel, but Aerin caught her, clinging to her arm like she was an anchor and the tide was threatening to sweep him away. The fingers of his free hand, battered and bruised, trembled as he looked to the Captain, who smiled―just a bit.

“Welcome home,” the Captain said as he rose and bowed his head, “Your Majesty.”

* * *

The night of the battle, the kingdom celebrated.

Aerin did not join in on any of the festivities, opting to sequester himself in a spacious but plain bedroom in the Eastern Wing. He had been told that his old rooms in the Northern Wing were still intact, as were the King’s, should he choose to claim it now. He would have to eventually―protocol and decorum required it. But for now, Aerin had no desire to occupy any space in the Northern Wing, where his entire family had once lived, but no longer.

He knew Iliana was out there somewhere. Not in town where he presumed the rest of their friends might be, celebrating, but in the skies, illuminated only by the moon and starlight, on the back of her dragon. The god she was immutably bound to. 

A part of Aerin wished she was with him now―long before the end of the night, he knew she would be. But he wanted her to indulge in her freedom while she had it. He did not know for how long they would be able to enjoy these moments of peace and he would not make this palace into the cage it had been for both him and his mother.

Although he knew it was important for morale to take the little victories as they came, Aerin had no interest in celebrating a battle he was certain they were  _ supposed _ to win. Nevertheless, he had eyes and ears in every tavern, agents dressed like normal townspeople, who reported back to a lean shadow of a girl named Inej, Anneith’s second-in-command, who thus reported to Aerin while the spymaster recovered. Reported to Aerin because he was the king.

He still could not believe it.

He had yet to be officially crowned but it seemed that the rest of the kingdom had already regarded him as such. Anneith’s agents reported that while the overall reception of Aerin was lukewarm and many still bore vehement contempt for him, everyone in Whitetower had already heard of how he had returned from the lands beyond with an aerial fleet of winged people and a beast that was rumored to be a god. 

There were tales and even songs about Aerin heroically battling the Emperor of Ash for his people, of a Priestess of Light challenging a dark mage, of two heroes―the old King’s elven Champions―laying waste to the Ash army on a dragon called Death. There was an underlying current of truth to all of those stories, although some were certainly more exaggerated than others. 

Aerin sat at the center of an empty, cold bed, toying with an old compass he had found in the lower library as he wondered how many of those tales had been spun by his own agents.

Wondered how many grand, epic tales it would take for his kingdom to love him, to forget all of the despair that followed him like a wake. Wondered if he deserved that.

Aerin sighed to himself, opening and closing the lid of the compass with a metallic  _ click! _ as his gaze lazily traveled around the room. It was sparsely decorated. A trunk sat against the wall, space for the occupant to store any belongings. There was a desk with a modest supply of stationery as well as a leather chaise. Several paintings adorned the walls―a field of blue galdurias, a ridge of snowy, frost-tipped mountains, a beautiful sailboat on a churning sea, a detailed map of Morella―

_ Click! _

Aerin snapped the compass shut in his palm and quickly rolled off the edge of the bed, getting to his feet. He drifted toward the map, which hung over the desk. Aerin paused, glancing out the window that overlooked the sparkling city of Whitetower, then shoved the compass into his pocket.

If he wasn’t going to celebrate, then he was going to get to work.

* * *

The following evening, they burned the dead. Soldiers, knights, and generals. 

The funeral pyres had been constructed at Cragheart, which had been cleansed of any blood, gore, and other remnants of destruction by dragon’s fire, a reminder that while flames were deadly, they could also be purifying. With them, they brought renewal. Rebirth.

The citizens of Whitetower―family members of the dead or simply those who wished to pay respects―flocked to Cragheart, a mass exodus of lanterns and Orbs of Light. There had been no time to alert the families of soldiers that lived outside of Whitetower but within the coming weeks, households would receive a letter bearing the news, one of the military’s standard-issue swords, and a promise that should they need anything of the Crown, they need only ask. 

The vow was unconventional. There were no records of any Valleros rulers―even those that reigned in times of war―making such open promises, but Aerin felt as if it was the least he could do. In fact, as he sat at his desk, painstakingly writing each of those letters, he could not help but feel that it was still not enough. 

* * *

King Arlan was laid to rest on the third day.

Aerin sat in the first pew, the captain positioned on his left, Iliana and their friends on his right, and a row of guards seated behind them. On the other side of the aisle sat several nobles, including Lord Roiben, his wife, Lady Astrid, and their daughter, Anora. Before the ceremony, decorum had required Aerin to greet all of the nobles―the twenty-four lords that presided over the various regions of Morella and their families. 

The exchange of pleasantries had gone well enough. The nobles had commended Aerin on the success of his mission beyond Morella, thanked him for returning when they needed, and expressed their condolences for the loss of the King. From an outsider’s point of view, the interactions seemed almost amicable. In fact, no one had asked him about Baldur nor his imprisonment. But Aerin knew with dreadful certainty that the moment the respectable time for mourning had elapsed, all of that would change. They were waiting, circling like a pack of wolves, and Aerin would soon find out which ones would heel and which ones would bite the hand that fed.

When he greeted the lord of the house that had yielded his mother―one of her cousins, Lord Tristan, was now in charge―Aerin could not help but wonder if they were all halflings as well. He still had so many questions he suspected would never receive answers. 

Aerin sat quietly in the pews as a Priest of Light went through the proper funeral rites, letting his body language suggest that he was listening with rapt attention while his mind wandered. He was well aware that all eyes were on him now, gauging his reaction, and truthfully, in this moment, Aerin was not sure how to act. As he gazed at his father’s body, preserved by the magic of the Whitetower healers, his chest felt tight with pain, but no matter how much he ached, no tears fell. Perhaps he was simply too exhausted or perhaps it was because even his body knew that once it started, it would not stop. He supposed he never really did learn how to grieve.

Aerin wished it was a private affair, but if he was being honest with himself, all of these people knew his father far better than he ever would. And besides, there would be plenty of time for him to mourn alone later.

Aerin felt a hand slip into his, squeezing gently from where it sat atop his thigh. He tore his gaze away from the ceremony, some part of his heart―the one that miraculously still worked―fluttering when he found Iliana’s gaze, her lips curved into a small, comforting smile. She was dressed in a green tunic threaded through with silver, hair loose and curled, skin scrubbed clean of any remnants of war, and beneath a layer of flowery perfume handmaids had no doubt drenched her in, he could still smell hints of pine, starflowers, and mist. Aerin tried to return her smile, but he knew it wasn’t quite right, the resulting expression more like a grimace. But he knew she understood. 

It was risky, having Iliana by his side, no matter how beloved she was by storytellers and most of the kingdom, and common sense told Aerin to pull away. Favoring an orphaned elf would only give the nobles more ammunition to use against him. Secrecy was smart―ending it was even wiser, although Aerin refused to entertain that idea―but right now, he was simply too tired, too morose, to care about some stupid political intrigue.

Aerin folded his hand around hers, brushing his thumb over the back of her knuckles―which were still marred by the twisting, silvery scars of dragon’s fire―as he turned away, facing forward once more. But as he did, Aerin felt another gaze bore into his skin. Aerin’s heart sank as he met Lord Roiben’s stare across the aisle. Of course he would be the one to notice.

Lord Roiben inclined his head, out of respect and in acknowledgment―acknowledgement of the prince regent’s attention and of his secret.

Aerin clenched his jaw ever so slightly and returned the gesture, waiting until Roiben’s gaze slid to the altar at the front of the room before Aerin did the same, subtly shifting his and Iliana’s entwined hands so they sat hidden between them on the pew.

Aerin closed his eyes, listening to the Priest’s Chant of Light, unable to help but feel as if the Game had already begun.

* * *

Aerin’s coronation was held on the seventh day.

In that time, the palace staff scrubbed the lower halls, cleared out the throne room, and prepared the abundance of food and drink needed for the occasion. Although the upper levels of the palace were still in ruin, reconstruction had already begun, and with how resplendent the throne room and Great Hall were, the assembled crowd paid the rest of the palace no mind. Better that it was standing than in a pile of rubble.

No one present for the coronation forgot who they had to thank for that small blessing. 

Iliana heard the whispers, the shared accounts of Prince Aerin’s bravery and his fight against the Emperor. Some of them anticipated his reign with excitement, some with neutrality, some with dread, but she noted that everyone who spoke about him, whether they did so with interest or scorn, also carried an undercurrent of fear. 

Initially, their fear unsettled Iliana, although Tyril assured her it was a good thing. Too little fear and the kingdom would think Aerin weak, just as Ventra Tal Kaelen had perceived Arlan to be. Too  _ much _ fear and he would be seen as a tyrant. 

While it was clear that the former would not be the case―gone were the days Aerin could pretend to be weak and vulnerable―the jury was still out on the latter.

As Iliana sat in the rows of seats beside her companions, awaiting the beginning of the ceremony, and observed the members of the nobility that would serve as Aerin’s council―at least until he selected his own members if he so pleased. They stood upon the dais, straight backed and proud. Among people that stood there, Iliana could only name Captain Ristridin, who looked as stoic as ever. Anneith, who Iliana had quickly taken a liking to, was not up there with him, even though she was a part of the council. But Iliana had no doubt that if she looked closely enough at the servants that milled about, she might catch the spymaster, with her bright lilac eyes―one real and one glass―secretly observing the room, her slightly pointed ears concealed either by a headscarf or her freshly dyed hair.

Beside her, her friends had lapsed into their usual banter: complaining about stuffy clothes, anticipating the food and drink that would be laid out after the ceremony, and planning the next tavern crawl. But Iliana instead listened in on the conversations that ebbed and flowed around her. It was more or less the same as it had been all week. Speculation and lofty, if not ominous titles.

_ The cruel to Arlan’s gentle. The Shadow Prince. The Blood King. _

But there was one title Iliana quite liked.

_ The King of Fire. The flames that will burn away the darkness. The man that will bring an end to the Great Conquerors and deliver them from the Ash. _

She knew Aerin would have scoffed if he heard that, would have believed himself unworthy of such a moniker. Hells, he probably would have sneered and called it overly garish.

But when the trumpets rang out, signalling his arrival, and Iliana finally saw him, she could not believe he was deserving of a title that was anything less.

Aerin paused on the threshold of the throne room. 

The other day, he had confessed that after only dressing in leathers, light-weight cottons, and armor for months, he now felt as if palace finery swallowed him whole, as if the pieces he had worn all his life no longer suited him. But looking at the prince now, dressed in rich red and gold, the proud colors of House Valleros, and draped in a cloak of heavy fur and velvet, Iliana could not help but think Aerin had never been so wrong.

He looked perfect. He looked like a king.

His old crown sat atop his dark curls, which had been trimmed and wrangled into something manageable after those long days on the road. Iliana wondered where his crown had been all of these months, where it would go when he took it off for the last time. 

Hazel eyes bright in the sunlight that streamed through the massive window, Aerin gazed down the long aisle that bisected the rows of seats for a few moments, as if weighing every step he would take to the dais. 

The entire room seemed to hold its breath as they waited for him, Iliana included.

Then, chin held high, steps confident and graceful, Aerin began to walk toward the dais. 

Toward his throne.

* * *

_ Once upon a time, in a land shrouded in darkness, there lived a young hero who loved his kingdom very much…  _

Those words echoed in Aerin’s head with every step he took toward the throne that awaited him, toward the crown that would replace the one that sat atop his head. They made up the first line of a story he had loved, a story about the man who had begun the legacy Aerin would now uphold, but somewhere along the way, it had become a mantra for him. A reminder of his only goal, his sole purpose: to protect his kingdom.

The last few days had been some of the hardest, and despite being surrounded by people he cared about, they were also the loneliest. Several times, he had felt it. Felt the crushing weight of the world bearing down on him. Felt the overwhelming urge to run, to leave all of this behind for someone else to deal with. But each time he felt the pressures, Aerin had let them wash over him, solidify him, remind him of the burden and responsibilities he would not pass on to another, for this was  _ his  _ kingdom.  _ His _ home. And he would do whatever it took to serve and protect it. Even if that meant taking the throne.

Once he had coveted it. For a time he had begun to fear it. Always, he had respected it. And now, he would accept it. 

Aerin dipped his chin in acknowledgement and gratitude as he passed Killian, Morrigan, and their father, the three of them dressed in fine tunics of forest green silk embroidered with silver thread. Aerin noted with some amusement that the row of seats behind them was left empty, perhaps because only an orc could hope to see over their wings. He imagined if Borte were with them, she would be scowling about the presence of so many gossiping nobles. Yes, it was probably best that she stayed in the Aerie. He could think of a few people that would simply die of shock from seeing her yellow eyes and sharp teeth.

Aerin passed Imtura’s crew and fought the urge to smile. He did not know the pirates well, but the very presence of orcs―especially ones as rogueish as them―at a coronation was unprecedented. Never before had orcs been in the presence of such important matters, but this was just the first of many unprecedented events that were to come. Aerin’s rule would be different, he swore this to himself. Orcs would be welcome in Whitetower, as would elves and halflings.

In a way, his rule was already unlike any that had ever come before, and it had yet to officially begin. For starters, no ruler had ever brought a dragon into Whitetower. He was not entirely sure where the Old God was now, perhaps perched on the parapets of the Whitetower border wall as he often seemed inclined to do, much to the city guard’s immense terror. He had a feeling that the guards’ fear was precisely why Iliana and Mor had taken to lazing around there.

Light preserve them all.

Aerin was also certain that no Valleros ruler had an entourage that was quite as diverse as his. This time, he could not help but smile as he passed his friends, who occupied the front row. 

Imtura, dressed in the finest imported furs the palace staff could obtain while still styled in typical Flotilla fashion, gave him a massive grin, incisors glinting in the light. Mal gave him a lazy salute, looking absolutely thrilled to be dressed in such finery. Several rings Aerin knew had not come from the Valleros treasury sparkled on his fingers. He almost pitied whatever nobles Mal had swiped them off of. Almost.

Tyril’s smile was polite and reserved, but the subtle nod he gave Aerin conveyed all of the approval and support he needed. Even Threep glared at him without his usual intensity. Kade’s grin was weary but excited, hair rumpled as if he had recently been awoken from an unexpected sleep. He probably had. It seemed that whatever time Kade didn’t spend in the library, he spent sleeping. Not that Aerin could blame him.

Aerin’s heart faltered in his chest, and for a moment, he completely forgot about how nervous he was as his gaze settled on Iliana, who beamed so brightly at him, he nearly paused in the middle of the aisle. Her emerald eyes shone as if she was trying not to cry. Beside her, Nia actually  _ was _ crying.

Aerin forced himself to keep walking. Despite his nerves, Aerin’s footsteps did not falter and his hands did not shake, his golden signet ring glimmering in the sunlight. The aisle felt endless, but also impossibly short. Before he knew it, Aerin was at the foot of the dais.

Aerin ascended the steps, then paused on the last one. Heart pounding, he knelt and removed his old crown, setting it aside just as Captain Ristridin strode to the edge.

“Sir,” the Captain said, his voice loud and clear. “Is Your Majesty willing to take the Oath?”

Aerin closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. “I am willing.”

Ristridin dipped his chin. “Then speak your vows.”

The Oath was short and simple, not entirely like the contract he had almost forged that day in Rysoth outside of the cave of indigo moonblooms. Aerin willed his voice not to falter as he spoke, loud enough for everyone present to hear. “I, Aerin Valleros, offer my life, my body, and my soul to Morella. I swear upon my soul to guard, nurture, and honor my kingdom, from now, until the end of my days.”

The Captain’s voice rumbled throughout the hall, full of authority and pride. “And so it shall be.”

Ristridin reached out just as the Seneschal stepped forward with a velvet pillow in his hands, and on top of it… 

His crown.

It was not unlike his father’s, made of intertwining bands of gold, topped with spades, and embedded with sparkling rubies as well as sapphires. The Captain lifted it, holding it up in a shaft of light for all to see, where it sparkled like a reborn sun, then set it upon Aerin’s head. As expected, it was heavy, even more so than the one he had worn as a prince. He closed his eyes, letting that weight ground him, letting it remind him that everything he had done, everything he was, everything that he would do from this day forward, would be for his kingdom. For Morella.

“Rise, Aerin Valleros,” the Captain whispered, although everyone heard.

And Aerin did, as King of Morella.

* * *

Growing up, Aerin had never been too fond of parties, dances, or soirees, so he thought it was entirely in-character of him to sneak out of his own Coronation Ball. After rubbing elbows with the regional lords, enduring hours of false flattery from their children who once could not have been bothered to pay him any attention when Baldur was around, and indulging a few other attendees with stories about the lands beyond Morella, Aerin had finally had enough of the celebration. He would have to return before the end of the evening to bid everyone farewell, but for now, he had other, far more pressing ideas on his mind.

The moment Aerin had some time to himself, he slipped out of the servant’s entrance to the ballroom, giving one last order to the nearest staff member―possibly one of Anneith’s agents for all he knew―before he went.

Hands folded behind his back, Aerin briskly wound through the palace halls, sensing more than observing Ristridin’s presence at his back, a steady, reliable shadow. At least that was how Aerin thought of the Captain. Mal, on the other hand, had called him an overprotective dog.

Away from the din of conversation and the swell of music that filled the ballroom, Aerin could now hear the faint sounds of reconstruction from the upper levels. It was a pricey expenditure, one Aerin would have waved and insisted they redirected the funds elsewhere, if it had not been for the symbolism. He reminded himself once again,  _ Symbols have power _ . While Aerin saw a waste of gold and time, the people of Whitetower saw a regime rebuilding itself, the recovery of a place ravaged by war. They saw strength in the wake of darkness.

As he wove through the halls, Aerin dipped his chin in greeting to any servants who hustled by, either to the kitchens, ballroom, or guest bedrooms in which the visiting nobles stayed. Every time he did so, he was met with the same reaction―surprise at acknowledgment, flustered gratitude, a timid, “Your Majesty,” and then a hasty retreat. Aerin internally sighed as a serving girl quickly scrambled to get out of his way and wondered if he would ever grow used to this sort of… reception.

The few nobles he passed he met with a polite smile, praying they wouldn’t hold him for conversation. Thankfully, none of them did, although Aerin knew for certain once they were out of sight, they would start gossiping, theorizing about where the new King was off to during his own celebration.

A short while later, Aerin shouldered open a nondescript wooden door, dropping a single order over his shoulder, “Make sure no one else comes in. Only them.”

He did not wait to see if the Captain listened. Aerin knew he would.

As the door swung shut behind him, Aerin took a deep breath, some of the tension draining from his shoulders now that he was alone. His fingers itched to remove the crown from his head and relieve his neck of its substantial weight but he willed himself to bear it. Aerin stepped away from the door and glanced around.

The war room.

The lanterns were already lit―probably Anneith’s doing. The passageway that led to her command base was closed, but Aerin was fairly certain that it had only been a few minutes since the spymaster or one of her agents had been through here. 

The room was small, closer to a broom closet than anything else, but it was secretive, located in one of the less trafficked halls of the palace and had several hidden corridors. For now, it would do. At least until the old war room had been rebuilt.

A long wooden table sat at the center of the room, carved of silvery Dorim wood, with a single stump for legs, its roots spreading across the floor. They had found the ancient table deep in the palace treasury―an old relic of times long past. A map of not only Morella but the known regions that surrounded the kingdom was painted on it in great detail, small markers set atop certain locations to indicate troops, supplies, and, most importantly, allies. 

Aerin grazed his fingers across the table, tracing the familiar rivers that meandered throughout the kingdom, the garnet rings that adorned his knuckles winking in the candlelight. Aerin ran a finger down the length of the Silban River, tracing the fork that ran north of Riverbend and flowed into the Cartesian Sea, right to Flotilla. He circled the floating city, humming to himself, then tapped the map, gaze flicking to Undermount, and finally the Frostwhisper Mountains. 

Aerin took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting the solid texture of the Dorim wood beneath his fingertips ground him. He had spent a majority of the last few days in this small room with his advisors and the members of his close council discussing and planning for what would come next. It was not until now that he would finally bring in the others and ask of them what he had been pushing off for the better part of the week.

The door to the war room creaked open, drawing Aerin’s attention.

Iliana stood at the entrance, her slender hands softly easing the door closed. Her hair unbound and decorated with small braids, she was dressed in shimmering silver silks, the style loose and flowy―quintessential elven fashion. Jewelry dripped from her ears, sparkling like stray bits of moonlight. As a whole, Aerin thought she looked a lot like a fallen star. It had been a test of will not to spend the entire night staring at her.

When she smiled at him now, Aerin felt all of his willpower drip away, scattering like the mist. 

He hardly had a moment to straighten from the war table before she surged forward and threw herself into his embrace, arms looping around his neck as she kissed him firmly, deeply. Instinctively, one hand darted out to brace himself against the war table as the other flew to the small of her back, fingers yearning to curl into the liquid fabric. When she pulled back a fraction, he felt her smile against his lips.

“King Aerin,” she said softly, her first words to him since before the coronation ceremony. “Do I even want to know what all of this is about?”

Aerin grinned.  _ King _ didn’t sound nearly as daunting when she was the one saying it. 

“You will soon enough,” he murmured, then kissed her again and again, savoring the immense joy of simply being here with her. But he could not contain his dismayed sigh when a curt rap on the door interrupted them.  _ Ristridin. _

Aerin felt a puff of air as Iliana huffed as well, but then she sweetly, briefly, kissed the corner of his mouth and set about straightening her hair, although her eyes sparkled with the promise of,  _ Later. _

Aerin smiled slightly, privately, then adjusted his crown as he faced the war table once more, righting a fallen marker and said, “Come in.”

Mal was the first to enter, an entire crystal decanter of Ondallian white wine in his hands. Nia was on his heels, a well-groomed Threep in her arms, followed by Tyril, and finally Imtura.

“Your Majesty,” Mal drawled as he swaggered in, casually setting the decanter on the table before abruptly pausing, as if realizing what it was. He arched a brow, his careless and easy facade falling away to reveal the sharp observer that always hid beneath. “What is this?”

“A war table,” Tyril mused, already transforming himself into the expert strategist, despite his formal attire. “It seems our new king has already been hard at work.”

“This is what you pulled us away from the ball for?” Mal questioned, even as his gaze slid over the map, brow creasing with worry. “We  _ just  _ won. I thought we all agreed that we deserve a little downtime after all of that.”

“I’m certainly not debating that,” Aerin replied, splaying his hands across the table and leaning his weight upon it. “But  _ deserve _ does not necessarily mean that is what we shall get.” He closed his eyes, the crown heavy atop his head as he sighed. “Trust me, I would not ask this of you, of any of you, if I did not think we need it. That is not to say…” He cleared his throat and tried again. “If you decline, I would understand―”

A gentle hand on his back stopped him. Aerin opened his eyes and looked up to where Nia stood beside him, her expression grave but soft. “Tell us what you need, first.”

Aerin opened his mouth, then closed it with a nod. He took a deep breath and straightened, drumming his fingers against the Dorim wood. “While our efforts in the last battle were commendable,” Aerin said curtly, resisting the urge to grimace, “I don’t think we should take our victory as a sign of comfort. I… am not even certain it was truly a victory.”

Imtura’s brows lowered. “What do you mean? We all saw the Emperor retreat. And that army got crushed.” Her golden gaze flicked to Iliana, although she did not mention  _ how _ the Ash host was decimated.

Iliana and even Tyril had not said much about the blast that took out the Ash forces after the rift was closed, and thus it was assumed that it was something of a sensitive topic. Aerin could not even imagine… being at the center of so much death and destruction. He wondered if that was why no one had seen even a spark of Light or any other magic from Iliana since the battle.

“Yes, we did,” Aerin conceded, scanning the faces of his companions. One look at Tyril and Iliana told him that they were all on the same wavelength. “But I think we won because we were meant to.”

Mal let out a noise of disbelief, something between a cough and a splutter. “What?”

“The way that mage spoke…” Iliana began, her expression already shifting from one of joy to another of consternation. Aerin wanted desperately to reach out and smooth away the crease that formed between her brows, but he refrained as Iliana continued. “She said this was only the first wave. A precursor of what is to come. A fraction of their might.” She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers against her temples. “I think it was a test.” 

“The Emperor said something similar,” Aerin added in agreement, his stomach twisting and his palms slickening with a cold sweat as he recalled that cruel, carnal voice. “I don’t think the Empire cared whether they won or lost. They just wanted to see what we could do, get us to show our hand. And we did. We gave them everything we could muster, and it almost wasn’t enough.”

A heavy silence fell amongst them as the weight of Aerin’s words sank in. 

What they had seen of the Empire had been terrible, horrifying. And if that was only a  _ test…  _

Imtura shook her head, leaning over the table as she cleared her throat, face hard. “Alright,” she stated, holding Aerin’s gaze. “So what are we going to do?”

“What do you mean, ‘What are we going to do?’” Threep questioned, padding across the map. “If that was just a test, how are we going to stand a chance when the Empire  _ actually _ wants to conquer us?”

“Well, we’re not just going to roll over with our bellies up and  _ let _ them conquer us, are we?” Imtura snarled, banging her fist against the table, rattling the markers.

“No,” Aerin answered sharply. “We’re not. But Threep  _ is _ right. We aren’t going to stand a chance when the Empire decides they want to go in for the kill. Not like this, at least.”

“Not like this?” Iliana echoed, drifting over to his side.

“This war is far from over,” Aerin declared, leaning over the table. He stared at the map for a few long moments, working his jaw. “If we’re going to survive this, we are going to need allies. To defeat an empire of legend, we need an army of legend.” He looked up from the map, his voice hard. “We need everyone.”

Tyril arched a brow. “Everyone?”

Aerin nodded. “Orcs, elves, humans,” he said firmly. “Soldiers, pirates, rogues, spies, mages, and mercenaries―anyone that can fight. Anyone that  _ will _ fight.” His gaze travelled to the lands beyond his kingdom―their kingdom. “In this kingdom and all of the rest. We already have the Avian Kingdom’s support, but we need more. This isn’t just a battle for Morella. It’s a battle for the Realm.”

“And what will we be for you?” Nia asked, her voice soft but strong.

“Emissaries,” Aerin stated. “Recruiters. Agents. Whatever you need to be in order to get us allies. By any means necessary. You have the Valleros coffers at your disposal and any vows you make I will uphold. I swear it.”

“That,” Mal pointed out, “is a large task.”

“It is,” Aerin agreed grimly. “And I would not ask this of you if I did not need it. If you wish to decline―”

“I’m in,” Mal stated before Aerin could even give them the option to say otherwise. “It was never really a question for me. You and I once talked about building a better world. This is where that starts. I’m all in.”

Aerin’s lips parted in surprise. He swallowed hard, then dipped his head in gratitude.

“I’m in, too,” Imtura vowed vehemently. “This is our home. Those bastards aren’t going to take it from us.”

Tyril nodded. “As am I. When the Shadow Court infiltrated our realm, I made it my life’s mission to purge this world of their filth. I will do the same with the Empire.”

“They seek to pray on the weak,” Nia said, her voice unexpectedly cold. “On people who cannot defend themselves.” There was a sharp bite to her words. “I will not let them.”

Iliana touched his elbow, her hand sliding down to tangle with his own. Her emerald eyes were bright as she said, “Anything you need, Aerin. We’re all with you.”

Aerin’s throat tightened, his heart overcome with emotion as he gazed around at his companions, his first allies, his  _ friends _ . “Thank you,” he managed at last. “All of you.”

“If you plan to amass an army that large,” someone said coolly, “you must first strengthen your kingdom from within. You are going to have to learn how to play the Game.”

Aerin stiffened. That voice… it was so achingly familiar, Aerin’s heart faltered. But he had not heard it in years. It couldn’t be… 

Aerin drew in a sharp breath as he looked up and saw the woman who stood in the open doorway, her slim body nearly swallowed by the thick furs she wore, although her stature was no less formidable. Ringlets of dark hair spilled over her shoulders, blending in with the fur at her neck, threaded through by rivulets of silver hair. Her hazel eyes were bright in the candlelight as they met his.

Aerin’s lips parted. “Mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last one before the epilogue!


	37. Epilogue: New Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party looks to the horizon in search of new beginnings.

**_One month later._ **

Nia Ellarious knelt in the High Temple, alone in the moonlight, head bowed in prayer. 

_ “Blessed are they who hold the Light, _

_ The peacekeepers, the healers, the guardians of the people. _

_ Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow, _

_ In their hearts shall burn the unquenchable flame. _

_ Faith guide me _

_ Through the long hours of the night. _

_ When hope has abandoned me, _

_ Virtue shall be my beacon. _

_ I will look to the stars and know _

_ The Light remains.” _

Before her, carved of white marble, stood a statue of a Saint of Light. Saint Alina, one of Nia’s favorites—a priestess elevated to sainthood after using the Light to protect an entire village of human serfs during the Great War. Legend claimed Saint Alina died in the process, but she died protecting the innocent, as all Saints of Light did—as Nia had always believed she would as well.

_ A martyr,  _ Mal would have said.

_ A hero, _ Nia would have argued once. Perhaps not anymore.

“Time and time again we have been tested,” Nia whispered, her hands clasped together in front of her scarred chest. The Blade of Light had not left a mark, but it seemed that other magic did. 

“The Great War, the second coming of the Dreadlord, and now the Empire of Ash,” Nia continued, her voice growing sharper, more frustrated with every word. “We give our seconds, minutes, hours, even days of our life to the Light. Is that not enough? Must we give all of it? Is that what is expected of us? To die so that the will of the Light may be done? Is death our only blessing?”

Nia heard the faintest of sounds, the sole of a worn boot whispering against polished stone. She halted in her prayer, in her questioning and turned.

“Hey, priestess,” Mal said softly as Nia quietly stood, rearranging the folds of her robes. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your prayer."

Gilded by the moonlight that streamed through the arched doorway behind him, Mal was dressed in dark clothes, a thief’s colors. Nia did not ask why. 

His footsteps were silent as he closed the distance between them. Nia suspected the only reason she had heard him enter was because he wanted her to. She folded her hands together in front of her. 

“Hi, Mal,” she said softly. Even though the Temple was empty, the acolytes and priests returned to their beds or the libraries, it felt wrong to speak any louder. “You haven’t come to pray, have you?”

Mal’s dark brows lifted for a moment, then he shook his head. “No. Not that I don’t believe in it,” he added quickly. “I just… never have been a man of faith. I—”

“Prefer the odds?” Nia guessed and Mal nodded slowly. She smiled slightly. “I know.” 

Mal’s responding chuckle was low and light, echoing throughout the empty hall, skittering up her bones. Nia’s smile faded.

It was not lost on her that the last time they had been alone like this, they had spoken about… Nia cleared her throat, standing up straighter. “If you aren’t here to pray, then…” She waved her hand around, the rest of her question clear.  _ Why are you here? _

“Right,” Mal said, clearing his throat as well. “I was on my way into the city for—well, that doesn’t matter. Elf boy—Tyril—he wanted me to tell you that it’s time to go. He’s waiting in the rookery.”

Ah. Of course. Nia nodded, gathering her cloak from where she had lain it across the marble floor as a cushion for her knees. “Thank you for telling me,” she said graciously as she started toward the open doorway, her footsteps echoing whereas Mal’s never sounded.

Nia was nearly outside when Mal caught her elbow. “Wait!”

Nia turned, her brow raised. “Yes?”

Mal didn’t blush. Mal  _ never _ blushed, not like she did. But she could tell that whatever he wanted to say was not easy. He worked his jaw, dark eyes flicking between hers as he released her elbow. After a short while, Nia thought he simply was not going to say anything, that he was going to pretend he hadn’t said anything.

Then, he asked, “Have you thought about… things?”

Nia swallowed. “Yes.”

Mal’s throat bobbed in response. “And?”

“And,” Nia said slowly, “I still don’t know.”

It was a lie. She did know. She suspected she’d even known last time they spoke. But no one ever expected a lie from the innocent priestess. Mal nodded without question and stepped back. 

“Be safe,” he bid her.

Nia nodded and stepped outside, drifting down the marble steps of the temple as she replied, “You too.”

That had been a few hours ago. 

Not even a year ago, Nia Ellarious had never been outside of Whitetower, save for small pilgrimages that lasted but a day. And now, she was flying on the back of a drake bound for Undermount as Whitetower’s ambassador, liaison for the King.

Nia was once again dressed in her priestess’ robes, not because formality required it or even because she was still a member of the Temple, but simply because it was familiar. Her robes were one of the few remnants she still had of her old life. She suspected that once they landed at the Starfury estate, she would be dressed in gauzy, geometric-patterned dresses that were typical of elven fashion—an honor for any person born outside of Undermount, especially a human.

Nia tightened her arms around Tyril’s waist and looked over the side of their drake, a beautiful beast named Kadara, and gazed at the passing scenery below with equal parts excitement and apprehension. She watched as the heartoak forest beneath them slowly came to life, color returning to its golden leaves as the sun began to crest the horizon, bathing the world in its warm light.

Nia closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting the comforting light of dawn, the cool air on her cheeks, the warmth of Tyril’s body against her own to ground her. Strengthen her resolve. 

The task laid before them would not be easy. Convincing the elves to leave Undermount, their home hidden in the mountains, for the first time in nearly two thousand years, would not be easy. But all of this was just one more impossible thing they would prove possible. And they had to, if they were going to have any hope of surviving the encroaching darkness.

Nia prayed she and Tyril would be enough to sway the elven houses, all fifty of them—from the lowest all the way to the House Ascendant. Then, she prayed that the others would also prove successful in their endeavors. And finally, she prayed that all of their efforts would be enough.

Nia was scared, terrified even. But she could not deny that a small part of her was excited to see more of the world, to learn about cultures apart from her own. The history Undermount held, the knowledge she could find about the Faith of the Light… 

Despite everything, Nia smiled, hope blooming in her chest. Hope, the most important weapon anyone could wish to have when facing immeasurable darkness.

Nia let that feeling take hold, let it grow, and looked toward the horizon, waiting for the next adventure to begin.

* * *

“Put your backs into it! I want to set sail before noon, if you bilge rats can manage!”

Imtura Tal Kaelen stood on the dock with her hands firmly on her hips, lips twisting into a fierce scowl as she oversaw the workings of her crew. In the watery light of early dawn, her men bustled to and fro, heaving crates and packages of supplies gifted to her crew by the palace rat himself as a parting gift. Although food and supplies were not the only gifts Aerin had sent her off with when Imtura and her crew departed from Whitetower.

Imtura’s fingers idly patted the lump in her pocket, two folded pieces of parchment she smugly carried around. The first was a letter of marque, by which she was not only  _ Captain  _ Tal Kaelen, but also  _ Privateer  _ Tal Kaelen. 

When Aerin had handed over the document, she had scoffed and claimed she had no problem sacking ships outside of the law. To that, he had smiled, claimed he did not doubt that in the slightest, but urged her to take it anyway, if not for herself then “for the sake of any other royal vessel that may waste their time trying to stop you.”

The second was a royal decree, ordering the harbormaster of Port Parnassus to release Imtura’s ship, effective immediately.

Oh, Imtura could still see the old harbormaster’s blustered face when she stormed into his office, demanding that her ship, which had been taken into his custody while she was beyond the kingdom’s borders and her crew was stuck in Whitetower, be returned to her possession.

Some humans—orcs and elves, too—were just born bitter. And some were particularly prejudiced, especially toward her kind. She knew from the way that old man sneered at her that he was one of those humans. He had spat vile things at her, ordered her out, cursed her kind. It took every ounce of restraint Imtura had not to grab him by the loose flesh of his neck and hurl him against the wall of his office.

She was glad she withheld herself, for no amount of satisfaction that would have come from beating the man into a pulp compared to what she felt upon seeing the harbormaster’s stunned expression when she set the decree on his desk and pulled the golden medallion that marked her as King Arlan’s Champion out of her pocket.

He had given Imtura her ship back. And thrown in some extra supplies, too.

Imtura sighed contentedly at the sight of her vessel. The _ Wraith.  _

Orc shipbuilders were by far the best. No human vessel could compare. So even by orc standards, the  _ Wraith  _ was a beautiful ship. It was well-kept, with rich, polished wood, and finely woven sails that caught the wind just so. The port and starboard sides were lined with the sturdiest of shields whose silver edges gleamed in the early morning light and massive, tusk-like spikes protruded from the body of the ship, prepared to spear and splinter any vessel that got too close, either by their own volition or Imtura’s.

Imtura had grumbled when she saw the layer of dust that coated the deck and the chipped paint of the railing, small offenses that had likely occurred while her ship was being held. No matter. Her crew would get the  _ Wraith _ into top shape in a matter of days. She would make sure of it.

In fact, Imtura was starting to think that some housekeeping and exercises in discipline were exactly what her crew needed. It seemed that being on land had softened them to duty. She would soon remind them who was in charge. 

But not quite yet. Imtura could not help but look at her crew with tenderness in her heart. They had followed her into so many battles, had plundered ships and defeated blood squids, grobtars, and other beasts by her side. Although  _ that  _ was nothing to get misty-eyed over. Every orc captain that was worth a damn had a crew like that. 

No, what touched Imtura’s wild, restless heart was the fact that they had followed her onto  _ land,  _ had waited in cells for weeks for her to return, and had fought beside her to defend a ruler whose regime did not give a damn about their people without so much as a question. 

And now, they were going with her to win her mother’s fleet. For the Crown.

With all of that loyalty, all of that support… how could she  _ not _ love them? She did not like to think of the long days they had spent in the Whitetower cells. She knew well enough from Aerin’s own reaction to them that they were not pleasant, and orcs weren’t made for dark, small places. But whenever she asked her Quartermaster or any other members of the crew about their time there, they simply shrugged it off and said they would follow her anywhere.

Bastards. Sentimental, soft-hearted, yellow-bellied bastards.

But as Imtura felt her lips curl, she wondered if perhaps  _ she _ was the yellowbelly. If she had lost them—and there had been a moment in the poison fields in which she feared she had… 

Imtura grunted to herself, casting that thought aside as she barked at a new recruit, an orc they had picked up in one of the taverns of Parnassus to swab the deck. She huffed and muttered beneath her breath, “Got a real swab on my hands.”

But even so, her words lacked any real bite. Imtura loved her crew, there was no use in pretending otherwise. She wanted the best for them. She wanted them to find some happiness before the realm descended to hell and everything went to absolute shit. It was why she had allowed them to run wild in the Whitetower taverns spending  _ her _ coin for the last month while she holed up in the palace’s training rooms, preparing for the fight—or possibly  _ fights _ —of her life.

Aerin needed help. He had asked her to recruit the orcs to their cause. And gods willing, Imtura would do it. She promised she would, and she would not break that promise, even if it meant wrangling the Skies, the Winds, the Ocean, and the Moon to do so. Weeks ago, Imtura had told Aerin that an orc’s word was everything and that her people did not take vows lightly. She was not about to give fuel for his doubt by failing him. Failing their kingdom.

Imtura was not delusional, nor was she a bubbly optimist like their beloved priestess. She knew that getting her people to follow her into battle and to fight for a kingdom that had not deigned to acknowledge their existence, would not be simple. 

When Aerin had asked her what was the likelihood that Ventra would aid them, Imtura had resisted the urge to snort in his face. The thought of Ventra willingly offering her support, of Ventra leaving her seat of power at Flotilla to help a regime that would not recognize her rule… It was laughable to say the least.

_ What if I grant her what she wants?  _ Aerin had asked, rolling a silver marker between his fingers as he studied the war table, crown slightly askew on his head.  _ Recognize her as Queen and Flotilla as a separate, autonomous city-state? Would she help then? _

_ She’ll only be more insufferable,  _ Imtura had sneered, shaking her head.  _ She would accept the title, smile at how desperate we are for her, and still say no. _

Imtura had promised she would at least  _ try _ to convince her mother, although she was almost certain she would have to result to other means of procuring the orc fleet. If Ventra did not agree to help, then she would go straight to the people and  _ win _ their support.

Imtura would win over the Clans, win over Flotilla, if she had to. She would most certainly dethrone her mother in the process. And she would do it all with a vicious smile.

Ventra always wanted Imtura to take the crown. Had spent years needling Imtura, belittling her for her life choices, and trying to shape her into being the successor she wanted. 

_ You wanted your heir, Mother? _ Imtura thought, glaring at the brightening horizon.  _ Now you have it. _

Imtura’s hands curled into fists, knuckles cracking with the motion. Ventra would get her successor, whether the Queen of Flotilla still wanted it or not.

“Captain!” called Kraglin from the bow of the  _ Wraith,  _ his red hair snapping in the briny wind _. _ “All ready to set sail!”

_ About time,  _ Imtura thought, casting one last look behind her at Port Parnassus, knowing that far beyond the tops of the seaside city’s red sandstone buildings, Whitetower loomed, where a king was depending on her to fulfill her promises.

Imtura strode up the gangplank and made her way toward the fo’c’sle. Over her shoulder, she bellowed, “Weigh anchor!”

She heard the telltale call of affirmation, a chorus of “Aye!” Then the deck lurched beneath her, but Imtura was ready, her legs steady as ever. She had been born of the sea, and one day, she would return to it, would become nothing more than seafoam and mist. But she’d be damned if that happened any time soon.

Before long, they were sailing out of port, the hull of the  _ Wraith  _ slicing through the waves as if they were nothing. Her braids whipping in the salt-kissed wind, Imtura gazed out at the brightening sky, watched as the first fingers of dawn stretched above the far-off reaches of the sea. She stood proudly at the bow of her ship, hands braced on the polished railing as they sailed toward the horizon.

Toward Flotilla.

Toward home.

* * *

Mal Volari was tired.

He leapt from rooftop to rooftop, eager to make it back to the rooms he rented above the Stone’s Throw before the sun rose.

After bidding Tyril and Nia farewell—that was  _ another _ exhausting affair, although admittedly, it was tiring for different reasons—Mal had spent the entire evening slipping in and out of the fancy townhouses of nobles, merchants, and gods-knew-what these people were and what they did to garner this much wealth. He swiped all sorts of valuable objects—not any that held sentimental value, but simply objects that were clearly pricey and the owners would notice had gone missing. 

Then, when he had taken all he could carry, Mal ferried them off to the palace, just as Aerin and Anneith had instructed him to. What exactly the King and his spymaster did with those valuable objects, Mal was not entirely certain. But he  _ did  _ notice that a new soup kitchen had opened up in the Nooks and Crannies, and that reconstruction had begun on one of the main thoroughfares that ran through the slums.

Mal had no qualms about stealing from the rich. If Aerin was somehow using all of the objects Mal brought in to fund improving the slums—even better. Although he wasn’t sure that was exactly legal. Not that Mal minded. Hells, more power to the guy if that was what he was doing.

But Mal had to remind himself that all of this stealing wasn’t  _ just _ for fun or for funding reconstruction efforts. No, all of the stealing had an entirely different purpose, one whose effects Mal did not so much see as  _ hear. _

The rumors flew like mad, buzzards caught in a storm. He hoped the right people heard them.

Mal leaped over a narrow street and landed on the sloping rooftop of the building that housed his rooms. Careful not to slide off the curved terracotta tiles that covered the rooftop and splatter himself on the cobblestones below, Mal shimmied along the edge with an alleycat’s grace until he was above his own window, which he had left open before leaving for the night.

Mal carefully lowered himself over the side of the building, fingers clinging to the roof’s edge and arms straining as he positioned himself in front of his window, then swung his legs through. Once he gained enough momentum, he released the edge of the roof and slipped in through his window, landing on the floor in a nearly soundless crouch.

Somewhat pleased with himself after a long night’s work, Mal straightened, dusting off his cloth-wrapped hands, and then moved to close the window when a voice stopped him cold in his tracks.

“Oh, good. You’re back.”

Mal nearly jumped out of his skin. In an instant, he whirled, daggers already sliding into his hands as he dropped into a defensive position. When he saw who had spoken, he relaxed slightly, although the scowl did not melt from his lips as he snapped, “You know, halfy, just because you’re my boss doesn’t mean you can  _ sneak into my home _ whenever you want.”

Anneith was seated at the dining table—if it could even be called such a thing. Really, it was just a small hunk of wood Mal  _ sometimes _ ate at when he didn’t take his suppers in the palace or when he didn’t simply just eat in bed because anything else required too much energy. She was idly twirling a dagger of her own, its edge flashing in the low light.

Anneith rolled her eyes and waved a careless hand, as she pushed back her chair and stood. Her hair, which had been recently dyed a deep reddish-brown, swung with the movement. “I wasn’t planning to come here, trust me. I was on reconnaissance when I saw some… notable people in the Market District. I followed them all the way to your home where they left  _ this.” _

Anneith flicked her hand and revealed an envelope caught between her fingertips, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. It was plain, without even a seal or a name to indicate who the letter was for nor who it was from. But Mal had a gut-wrenching feeling he knew exactly where it came from. 

He plucked it from Anneith’s fingers, turning it over in his hands, testing its weight—light enough to tell him that it carried only the letter and nothing more—before using one of his daggers to split it open.

“It looks like our methods worked,” Anneith mused, folding her arms as she leaned back against the wall, crossing her legs at the ankle.

“You haven’t even read the letter,” Mal muttered, sliding the parchment out of the envelope. “How could you possibly know that?”

“I don’t need to know what’s in the letter,” she replied coolly, tilting her head in that same predatory way the kit seemed to do without realizing when she was assessing a situation. 

_ Elves,  _ he thought, shaking his head.  _ Do they have to act so… preternatural all the time? _

“The fact that they left a letter alone means it worked,” Anneith reminded him. “We wanted their attention, and now we’ve got it.”

Mal shot her a scalding look.  _ “We _ want their attention?  _ You _ wanted their attention.  _ I _ have it.”

Anneith pursed her lips, her lilac gaze roaming over his face. “Are you having doubts, Volari?”

Mal’s brows lowered, his mouth opening to snap at her when he sighed, reining his temper back in. “No. Of course not.” He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, the letter still folded in his fingers. “I told the princeling—er,  _ King _ —that I would help. In any way that I can. If this is how…”

Mal trailed off, twirling the letter between his fingers as he stared at the floorboards. 

Across from him, Anneith sighed. She pushed away from the wall, her footsteps soft—even softer than his—as she crossed the room and laid her hand reassuringly on his shoulder. “You wanted to leave that life behind, I understand that,” she told him earnestly, her cool voice unexpectedly soft. “If I could get one of my other agents in or even myself, I would. But they’re making themselves impossible to infiltrate to new blood, and as we have discussed, the only way to get in is if they welcome someone in. And you… Well, clearly, they still want  _ you.” _

Mal closed his eyes and nodded. “I know. I’m not going to back out.”

“Just remember that it isn’t real,” Anneith instructed him gently. “You got out. You’re not getting dragged back in. You will never be their toy again. But,” she added, squeezing his shoulder for emphasis, “if you decide you want out, then we end it. With or without their aid. Aerin gave you his word and I am giving you mine.”

Mal took another deep breath. For a moment, he felt like he was a kid again, hiding in the shadows of the Nooks and Crannies, stagnant, foul water soaking through his ragged boots, picking pockets first to get by, then to satisfy his clients, and finally just to pay off his debts.  _ Never again,  _ he had promised himself. Never again would he be broke, downtrodden, and desperate enough to get involved with Whitetower’s underworld.

And yet, here he was.

_ It’s not the same,  _ he reminded himself. It wasn’t.

Mal nodded and opened his eyes. Anneith met his gaze and nodded in return, pulling her hand away and folding her arms behind her as she stepped back.

Mal ground his teeth and unfolded the letter. The words on it were written by a flowing hand, the ink fanciful and curving. It read:

_ The Reaper rises. _

And below that, an address.

Mal swallowed hard, quelling the shaking in his fingers. He knew what that meant. 

The Thieves Guild had welcomed him back.

* * *

Tyril Starfury was beginning to realize that almost everything he had presumed to know about the world was wrong.

As he stood in his room of the Starfury manor, fingers skimming over the the array of gilded tunics that hung in his wardrobe, he considered when exactly Undermount had stopped feeling like home for him, when he no longer recognized the city in which he grew or the society that raised him.

Looking back at it, the devastating dismantling of Tyril’s perception of his people was slow and careful. 

It had begun when he saw how wild and free the rest of the kingdom lived, how well the humans had flourished without elven guidance. In the old days, humans were servants to the elves and were seen as lesser beings. But how, Tyril wondered in his first days beyond the gates of Undermount, could they possibly be lesser when they were clearly capable of such greatness? The Kingdom of Morella thrived under the hand of a human ruler. Yes, it certainly had its faults and flaws, and corruption could be found in the highest of places. But the kingdom as a whole worked better than Tyril’s tutors had led him to believe.

The second step to his epiphany had been meeting Iliana. It boggled his mind—an orphaned elf, raised by humans? It was unheard of. He knew full well that Iliana’s upbringing had lacked hardship because of her identity. That night on Gerhard’s boat, when they had spoken of fae fish and Lantris, she had told him all about her childhood bullies, the sneers she sometimes received. But her interactions with humans were less hostile than he had expected.  _ His _ interactions with humans while he was alone were less hostile than he had been prepared for.

The innkeepers had never turned him away. As long as Tyril had the coin to pay for his expenses, they did not so much as bat an eye at his presence. Sometimes, depending on how exhausted and downtrodden he looked, the serves at local taverns would slide him an extra bowl of gruel, piping hot to stave away the evening’s chill.

And Mal and Nia… Tyril could not even begin to think of how surprising they were. Incredible strength in extreme softness, unfaltering loyalty from a lonesome heart. 

Tyril stared at the garments laid out before him—he was supposed to be getting ready to take Nia around the city for a tour, let the people of Undermount get used to her presence—but all he could do was think about how grateful he was for meeting the people that changed his world.

Imtura, someone he thought he would never have anything in common with—not just because she was an orc—turned out to be one of his most cherished friends. Their mannerisms were about as different as could be, but no one harbored a sense of duty to their people as well as Imtura did. No one, except perhaps, Aerin, who was an entirely different surprise. Tyril deeply respected the orc captain and her dedication to her crew, then her dedication to the party. It was her determination to the people she trusted that reinforced Tyril’s own resolve to help his kind, to save his people from themselves.

And Aerin… As much as Tyril once would not have liked to admit it, he saw a lot of himself in the young prince, now crowned king. Raised in Undermount, ambition had been ingrained in Tyril’s bones. From birth, he had been taught by his tutors to do anything and everything he could do, within reason, to improve and maintain House Starfury’s standing. He had been lucky that House Starfury was held in high esteem for much of his life, thanks to his mother and father’s skilled maneuvering, at least until Tyril had tanked their reputation in his duel with Kaya, or more accurately, Xenia. Nevertheless, he could not imagine what his life would have been like if he had been raised in a lesser house, always yearning to climb to the top.

Aerin had shown him the dark side of ambition, had shown Tyril what he might have been had his circumstances been different. He had never told the Valleros prince, but Aerin would have done exceedingly well in Undermount. 

More than that, Aerin had shown him that it was possible to come back from dishonor, from a life of sin. And that, more than anything else the prince had shown him, was something Tyril would never forget.

The last piece of the facade came free when Tyril learned that his Old Gods were not actually gods, but just beings from another realm his people had  _ made  _ into gods.  _ That _ had inundated him in an entire slew of questions.

Truly, were the Old Gods any better than the Dreadlord? Were his people any better than the Society for Unorthodox Magic from which the Shadow Court had grown? After all, they both worshipped foreign beings whose nature they did not truly understand. Were the elves truly so willing to revere anything that displayed great power?

The elves liked to believe themselves superior to other species for their great affinity for magic and high intellect. But in the end, Tyril was starting to think they were no better than hounds looking for a higher power to serve—a people that were so busy looking up to gods and down on others that they always neglected to look within.

Even now, the elves of Undermount still retained that haughty position, while they themselves were mere impressions of what they had once been. Undermount was supposed to be a hub where elven art and culture thrived, but now that Tyril had seen the world, he understood the truth. Undermount was a place where his people hid, choosing to cling to a past they did not truly remember while the rest of the world moved on without them.

It broke his heart to see it so.

But it also filled him with resolve. 

Tyril did not want to lose the culture of his ancestors anymore than he wanted to turn his back on the world beyond Undermount. He wanted them to coexist. There  _ had _ to be some sort of middle ground between hiding in isolation, drowning in the folds of history, and forgetting all elven culture to live like modern humans.

There  _ was _ a middle ground. Tyril was living proof of that—living proof that the old ways of the elves could still prevail in an individual that was exposed to the rest of the world.

That fact gave him hope. Gave him purpose.

Aerin had given him a task: find allies. Recruit the elves. And Tyril would do that. But he would also do so much  _ more _ in the process.

He would help the elves remake their society into the glorious civilization it had once been, but this time, it would be real. Their greatness would not be reaped through the squandering of others and it would not be created through carefully crafted lies. Their greatness would be built on the foundation of protecting the realm, of standing with the people they had once neglected.

Tyril reached into his wardrobe, pulled out one of his finer garments, and prepared to present himself and his human ambassador to the city, his heart filled with fiery resolve.

He, Tyril Starfury, would bring his people out of Undermount, the City of a Hundred Thousand Alleys, for the first time in two thousand years. 

* * *

Iliana Nightbloom ground her teeth, snarling obscenities under her breath as she spat blood onto the hard granite beneath her.

Sometimes, on mornings like these when Iliana woke up with a restless sort of energy in her bones, she would slip out of the palace to either train in combat or simply go flying with Mor. Iliana treasured the mornings they went flying together, when she felt the cold wind in her hair, felt her stomach dip in momentary fear when Mor swooped toward the earth, his belly barely brushing the tops of the heartoak trees. 

Sometimes, they went flying north over the Frostwhisper Mountains of Vishanti, partially because Iliana loved the way the wind howled in between the jagged, snowblasted peaks, and partially because she wanted to spite the Khagan, if the wooly ruler ever thought to look up. Other times, they flew over the Golden Coast, letting the cool, briny sea breeze fill their lungs as the rising sun made the entire sea burn like liquid fire. Occasionally, they had even flown over Riverbend. Those mornings, Iliana had gleefully pointed out all of the places she had gotten into trouble with Kade while the townspeople still slept peacefully in their beds, completely unaware that their Champion soared above their heads.

Today, unfortunately, was not a flying day, but a training day.

“Tired?” Mor rumbled behind her.

Iliana’s scowl only deepened as she shoved herself to her hands and knees, then to her feet, and shook her arms, banishing the ache in them. She glared at the dragon, wiping blood from her nose as she turned around. “Don’t be so smug, Vaelor. I defeated you once, remember?”

“When you had magic,” the Old God replied coolly and Iliana resisted the urge to snap at him. But he was right.

Summoning magic was no longer as easy as it had once been for her. Now, she could hardly muster a fraction of what she had been able to wield during the battle at Cragheart—the Battle of Ash, as people had begun to call it. Now, she could hardly do what the young elflings of Undermount could do in their combat training. And, according to Tyril, she had far less discipline.

As always, she had been sad to see her dearest friend leave early last night, although she knew that duty required him to return to Undermount. In the month that Tyril had remained in Whitetower, he had accompanied her and Mor to the base of the Frostwhisper Mountains, far from where the central population of Morella resided, and helped her hone her magic. Or at least what remained.

Now, she only had a god to spar with.

“Come on, beast,” Iliana ordered, flexing her hands. “Let’s go again.”

The irony was not lost on her, that once, with Aerin, she had been the mentor and he was the trainee. Now she was the one who was back in the training room. Admittedly, it had been a long time since she’d had to learn a new skill, or at least one she did not pick up with ease, so her slow progress was a bit aggravating.

For a moment, Mor looked as if he might deny her another round of fighting—or more accurately, another round of him blasting Iliana with fire as she tried to shield and dodge—but ultimately he obliged her, and released a barrage of flame where she had been standing. 

Iliana danced to the side, conjuring her own shield of blue fire to beat back Mor’s flames. She raised her arm, gritting her teeth as sweat trickled down her temple from the effort. Her magic strained but Iliana willed her shield to hold as daggers of ice materialized in her palms. The moment Mor’s barrage of fire relented, Iliana peered over the flickering edge of the compact, blue-fire shield that burned in front of her forearm. Then, she hurled the daggers of ice around her shield with an eagle-eyed precision that would have made Mal proud. 

Iliana did not allow herself any time to celebrate as her blades lodged in Mor’s leathery flank. Instead she let his roar of displeasure serve as satisfaction enough and ducked behind her shield once more, pouring her magic into it to strengthen her defense as Mor unleashed another torrent of flame.

_ This _ she could handle. Small, concentrated bursts of magic. No waves of flame, no full-body manifestations of the Light. Even her pure, raw lightning had not come when she called it, no matter how hard she willed it to appear.

Only Tyril knew that her abilities were no longer what they once were. She suspected the others were curious why she had not conjured so much as an Orb of Light in front of them, but no one had ever pressed her for explanations.

Tyril had suggested that perhaps her body was simply still recovering from such a massive expenditure. Or that maybe her burden was psychological, the result of some sort of trauma she needed to confront and work through. Iliana did not know how to tell him—to tell anyone—that it felt as if at Cragheart, something fundamental in her had broken.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she was just recovering and maybe the block was psychological. Iliana hoped the explanation was that simple. But either way, she could not afford to sit around and wait for her magic to come back, and as of right now, she did not know what issues she had to confront.

The moment Mor’s fire dissipated, Iliana sprung up, prepared to go on the offensive when the air around her suddenly shifted, her senses lighting up. Iliana had just enough time to fling herself backward and out of the way when a hunk of granite rock landed in the space she had just been standing.

Iliana whirled on the dragon, her eyes wide. “That could have  _ killed me!” _

Mor looked unbothered as he clutched another boulder-like mass of rock in his sharp talons. “The fire could have killed you as well. Do you believe that the Emperor will not strike to kill?”

Iliana scowled, dropping into Zephyr stance, perfect for evasion. “Far from it.”

Mor continued his onslaught, hurling hunks of rock and even small, already-fallen trees in Iliana’s direction along with his usual attacks of fire, fang and claw. Iliana dodged around the boulders, burned through the trees, deflected the deluge of fire, and attacked back with her own blade when she met those vicious talons. The sword she wielded was not the Blade of Sol, but rather something she knew far better, something regarded with an almost warm familiarity. 

Iliana’s old sword spun in her grasp. Iliana had left the shards with Borte before they left the Aerie with the single hope that the dwarf-woman could somehow repair it. When Iliana returned two weeks ago to pick up some weapon designs from the old dwarf, she saw that her hope in the woman had not been misplaced.

The pieces that had shattered apart in the Realm of the Gods were now joined together once more, welded together by veins of some sort of precious but strong material that looked like pale blue crystal but held up like steel. Now, her sword looked as if it was threaded through with the lightning that had destroyed it. It was beautiful.

When Borte had presented it to her, she had said,  _ Dirthasa’randa.  _

Stormbringer.

_ What language is that?  _ Iliana had asked when Borte finished translating.

_ An obsolete one. Even my knowledge of it is small. Limited to ‘hellos,’ ‘goodbyes,’ and terms regarding nature that I picked up in old spellbooks,  _ Borte had admitted.  _ My people call it the Old Language. The language of magic. _

Iliana grunted as a stray branch slammed into her gut, knocking the wind from her lungs. She stumbled backward, spinning out of the way of a burst of flame that she battered away with a gust of wind. Her magic was extremely strained now, like a muscle that was threatening to give out from overexertion, and she had yet to land so much as a solid blow against the Old God. Daggers of ice, punches of flame—attacks that made Mor snarl and growl in annoyance, sure. But for Iliana, that was not good enough.

A boulder soared in her direction, but this time, Iliana was not fast enough to dodge out of the way. Instead, she threw her hand up just in time to construct a shield of hard wind. The hunk of granite collided with the shield and tumbled back, but the force of the collision knocked Iliana hard on her ass.

She grunted, her tailbone screaming with the impact. She barely had time to recover when a column of flame erupted next to her. Iliana rolled out of the way and instinctively punched out with her fist. A sharp gust of wind accompanied her motion and Iliana resisted the urge to whoop in triumph as she watched the Old God’s head snap to the side from the blow.

And  _ that, _ Iliana was certain, was the extent of what her magic could handle today. She folded over, hunching over her knees as she caught her breath. She was so busy recovering that she completely missed as Mor turned, tail whipping behind him, and swept her off her feet.

Breathing hard and aching all over, Iliana glared at the sky, which was starting to brighten with the coming dawn. “Old bastard.”

Mor loomed over her, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Get up. Let us return.”

No one knew when the Great Conquerors would return, only that they would. And when they did, Iliana had to be ready to fight. She would not allow Morella to lose another king to the Empire of Ash. Especially not  _ her _ king.

When the Emperor came, she would be ready.

“No.” Iliana narrowed her eyes, then punched upward, a short burst of flame erupting before the dragon’s face as she heaved herself to her feet and shook out her hands. Mor whipped his head away, a low snarl building in his chest.

Iliana huffed, dropped into a low fighting stance, and ordered, “Again.”

* * *

“Incredible,” Aerin murmured, bright white light dancing in his eyes as he marked a few notes onto a schematic that was already littered with his neat handwriting and Borte’s arthritic scrawl.

“You’re surprised it works?” Kade asked from where he sat with his legs folded across from him. “You’ve been working on it for weeks.”

Between them sat an array of large metal orbs, white hot electricity crackling between them. The prototype was like a larger version of the small, electrically charged beads Aerin had used months ago against the drakna queen. Aerin could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end simply from being within close proximity of so much energy.

“You can never be too certain,” Aerin shrugged, reaching back to flip a small switch that turned the contraption in front of him off. The device crackled one more time, fizzled and popped, and then went dormant. He referred to the notes in his lap once more, chewing his bottom lip as he tapped the parchment with his quill. At last, he made a satisfied sound. “Yes. That works beautifully.” He looked up at Kade. “What do you think?”

Kade lifted his brows as if surprised that Aerin was asking for his opinion. “Well, I don’t know anything about engineering  _ or _ warfare, but um… it looks like it would hurt.”

Aerin laughed, reaching to push his hair out his face but pausing when he realized that his fingers were smeared with ink. He let out a displeased hum and hastily waved his hands around in an attempt to dry the ink before it could taint anything else. “It’s not supposed to hurt,” he replied, setting his quill on the marble floor of his room. “At least, that is not the intention. It’s supposed to stun people, not kill.” He pursed his lips. “I should hope they’re rendered unconscious before they feel any pain.”

“Well, you have to test that, don’t you?” Kade questioned, his gaze following Aerin as the King stood.

“Indeed,” Aerin confirmed, rolling up the schematics with a slight sigh as he saw that he had left a dozen inky fingerprints behind. He held out the rolled up plans to Kade. “Next time you see Iliana, will you give this to her? Ask her to bring it to Borte next time she visits the Aerie.”

Kade arched a brow as he clambered to his feet and took the plans, careful not to touch any of the metallic orbs. “You want me to give it to her?” he questioned slyly, a teasing lilt to his voice. “I’m pretty sure you’ll see her before I do.”

Aerin rolled his eyes even as he felt a blush creep up his neck. He shook his head, gaze straying to the windows in his room that overlooked the city. Dawn was starting to illuminate the rooftops, casting everything in a pinkish gold glow. “You’re her brother. She always checks in with you first. I think she wants to make sure you haven’t run off in search of any mythological beings again.”

Kade let out a wry huff. “I’m not doing anything like that ever again. My dreams alone have more than enough adventure to last me a lifetime.”

Aerin quirked a brow at that peculiar phrasing, although he didn’t bother to question it. Kade was always saying strange things and telling Iliana about his dreams. Instead, he asked, “For someone who likes sleeping so much, I’m surprised you’re awake and coherent now.”

It was true. Aerin had spent most of the night tinkering with his contraption until he fell asleep at his desk. He’d only woken up because he’d miraculously  _ dreamt  _ of a solution to his problem. When he had looked around, bleary eyed, he’d seen that Iliana had already left for the morning, whether to go back to her own rooms or to go on another journey with Mor.

After he fixed his contraption, Aerin went searching for someone to show it to, perhaps Ristridin or one of his advisors or hells, even Anneith would have been fine. He just needed a second opinion. For a short time, Aerin had even considered going to his  _ mother.  _ She always seemed to be up at the early hours of the morning, just like his father. But luckily, he had found Kade first, wandering around the library. Unsurprisingly.

“Trust me,” Kade replied. “The moment I’m out of here, I’m going back to sleep. But if I see Iliana, I’ll hand this off to her.”

“Thank you.” Aerin nodded gratefully. “I want to hear Borte’s input before I test this on myself.”

Kade’s eyes widened. “I—you—you’re going to test that on  _ yourself?” _

Aerin blinked at him. Then he shrugged. “Well, I’m not going to shock  _ someone else.” _

“I—that’s—” Kade stared at him in bewilderment. After a few moments, he shook his head and turned on his heel, heading toward the doors that led out of Aerin’s quarters. “I’m going to let Iliana chew you out for that one. You know she’s not going to let you do that.”

Aerin snorted in a very unkingly manner and waved a dismissive hand. “I can handle your sister."

Kade shot him a look over his shoulder as he nudged open the door with his foot, the rolled up schematics clutched in his hands. “No,” Kade said pointedly, “you cannot.”

Aerin opened his mouth to reply, but truthfully, Kade was right. If the last few months had taught him anything, Aerin knew full well that Iliana was not a force to be handled but a storm to be weathered. And he loved her for that.

Aerin shook his head as the doors swung shut behind Kade and eyed his bed. He  _ should  _ go back to sleep. He reckoned that he could probably get a few more hours of shuteye before one of his advisors or messengers began rapping on his doors, claiming that there was an urgent matter that needed his attention, even though it was almost never  _ ever _ as urgent as they claimed.

But… 

But, if the sun was rising, then Iliana might be back soon. He didn’t know where she went with Mor during these early hours—he assumed somewhere to spar, considering sometimes, despite how she tried to hide it, she sometimes bore bruises and her hair smelled a little burnt. He didn’t mind any of it though, did not care where she went when she set off with Mor in the mornings or afternoons, only that she returned. And she always did. She came to him every time, windswept and grinning, her cheeks flushed and dry from the bitter wind, but still lovely as ever.

Aerin cherished those moments he had with her, which were far too rare for his liking. But in between all of his responsibilities as King and Iliana’s own endeavors, they had very little free time to spend together. If he was being honest with himself, Aerin  _ missed  _ her.

Aerin sighed, running his fingers over the sheets—fortunately not leaving any fingerprints this time—before he pushed open the double doors that led to his balcony and strode outside. Over the course of the last month, reconstruction on the palace had made commendable progress, but looking at all of the scaffolding and bare wooden beams, Aerin knew they still had a long way to go. It would take quite some time for the palace to recover—for  _ everyone _ to recover. Including himself. 

Bracing his forearms on the balcony railing, Aerin gazed at the city of Whitetower, sprawled out beneath him with a mixture of pride and sorrow. His gaze slid over the domed ceiling of the Royal Theater and the terracotta rooftops of quaint houses, all the way to the white wall that surrounded the capital. And beyond that, lay the rest of his father’s kingdom.  _ His  _ kingdom.

Once, he had thought that becoming King would be the best thing that could ever happen to him, that it would make his life complete. And in all of his imaginings, he had never thought that  _ this  _ would be how he would take the throne, in the wake of his father’s death. In the middle of a war.

Aerin fit his chin into his palm, body sagging.  _ If things were different…  _

But they weren’t. This was the reality Aerin lived in, and he had to make the best of it. He was the king now, regardless of circumstance or reason. The only thing he could do now was try to be the ruler he had always wanted his father and brother to be, and do what he could to make sure his people survived.

A familiar cry made him look up.

Overhead, Iliana soared on the back of Mor, returning from wherever it was they had gone this morning. Despite himself, Aerin smiled.

Aerin watched them fly in lazy circles over the capital city, Morella’s greatest weapon and his greatest weakness. He did not yet want to think about how much danger he was going to have to put her through in the coming days, the impossible requests he would have to make of her for the good of the realm. Aerin knew that whatever he asked of Iliana, she would do. Just as he would do anything for her. 

But those problems could wait for the next dawn. For now, he simply let her fly, wild and free. 

Aerin tore his gaze away from Iliana and the dragon, looking once more toward the brightening horizon, fingers tightening around the handrail. His friends were out there, amassing an army that would rival those of legends. Because that is what they would need. A legendary army to fight an evil unlike any they had ever seen before. 

Yes, Aerin’s friends were out there—allies he knew would have his back until the end. But so were his enemies. And when they came, he would be ready.

He had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After almost three months and nearly 300k words, the Ashes and Embers is finally finished! But don't worry, the story is far from over. Keep a lookout for part 2 <3
> 
> I want to thank you all for the comments, the edits, the artwork, the kudos, the reblogs, the bookmarks, the patience, and most importantly, for coming along with me on this journey. Special thank you to @thealia for beta-ing my chapters and providing feedback, I cannot even begin to tell you how much easier you made this whole process.
> 
> Ashes and Embers is the longest piece I've ever written and it is the creation I am most proud of by far. Writing this has been an experience I will never forget.
> 
> Please, feel free to come find me on Tumblr @undermounts to hang out and get updates on A&E 2!


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